Gloria; a novel

-fe.^r^

THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

GIFT OF

Mrs. George Papashvily

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GLORIA

A Novel

By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

Author of

"The Unloved Wife," "Lilith," "Em," "Em s Husband,"

" For Whose Sake," "Why Did He Wed Her?"
"The Bride s Ordeal," " Her Love or Her Life," Etc.

A. L. HURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS :: :: NEW YORK

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By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

In Handsome Cloth Binding

Price - 60 Cents per Volume

CAPITOLA S PERIL

CRUEL AS THE GRAVE

"EM"

EM S HUSBAND

FOR WHOSE SAKE

ISHMAEL

LILITH

THE BRIDE S FATE

THE CHANGED BRIDES

THE HIDDEN HAND

THE UNLOVED WIFE

TRIED FOR HER LIFE

SELF-RAISED

WHY DID HE WED HER

GLORIA

DAVID LINDSAY

For Sale by all Booksellers
or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price

A. L. BURT COMPANY PUBLISHERS
52 Duane Street New York

Copyright, 1877 and 189

By ROBERT BONNER S SONS

Renewal granted to Mrs. Charlotte Southworth Lawrence, 1905

"GLORIA"

Printed by special arrangement with
STREET & SMITH

GIFT

GLORIA

CHAPTER I

A SPOILED BEAUTY

Her eyes flashed fire ! Convulsive rage possessed
Her trembling limbs and heaved her laboring

. breast ;

Blind to the future, by this rage misled,
She pulled down ruin on her reckless head.

DRYDEN.

"DAVID LINDSAY, will you marry me?"

The speaker was a girl scarcely past childhood,,
young, beautiful, good, wealthy, and yet desper
ate, as not only her words, but her every look, tone,
and gesture proved.

Her voice was low, her tone steadied by a power
ful self-control. She stood there with a pale hor
ror, yet fixed resolution, on her face; as one might
stand on the deck of a burning ship, wrought up to
choose death between fire and water, ready to es
cape the flames by plunging into the sea.

He to whom she spoke was a poor fisherman on
the estate, young, strong, healthy and handsome,
with the good looks that youth and health give,
but bronzed by exposure, roughened by toil and
rudely clothed.

3

05G

4 GLORIA

The scene of this strange interview was a small,
sandy island on the coast of Maryland. The time,
an over-clouded and blustering morning near the
end of January.

He had been hard at work mending his boat,
which lay bottom upwards on the beach, when she
came suddenly upon him.

Then he stood up, took off his old tarpaulin hat,
and respectfully waited her orders.

What a contrast they formed, as they stood there
facing each other she, the delicate, patrician
beauty, wrapped in richest furs and finest velvets,
yet with that look of pale horror and fixed resolu
tion on her beautiful face he, the hardy son of the
soil, bronzed and rugged, clothed in a rough pea-
jacket and loose corduroy trousers, with their legs
tucked into high, coarse, bull-hide boots; robust,
erect, cordial, yet with a look of unbounded aston
ishment in his fine dark eyes.

They might have been the last young man and
maiden left in the world, for all sign of human life
or habitation near them, as they stood on that little
sterile isle around them the dark -gray sea rough
ened by a high wind behind them the mainland in
its wintry aspect of skeleton forests, rising from
snow-clad hills.

"David Lindsay, will you marry me?" repeated
the girl, seeing that he had not answered her ques
tion, but stood before her dumfounded with amaze
ment.

"Miss de la Vera!" was all that he could utter,
even now.

"I know that you love me," she continued, speak
ing now with more vehemence, and looking over
her shoulder, from moment to moment, as if, even

GLORIA 5

in that remote, sea-girt isle, she dreaded espionage,
eavesdroppers, discovery, pursuit, arrest. "I know
that you love me, David! It is that which gives
me courage to come to you for refuge in my dread
ful desperation. I know that you love me, for I
heard you say so once when you saved nay life
that time at the imminent risk of your own."

"And, oh, is it possible that you can love me?"
breathed the young man, in deep tones vibrating
with his heart s profound emotions; for with his
whole heart he had loved her, deeply, ardently, hope
lessly with his whole soul he had worshiped her,
afar off, as some exalted and forever unattainable
good. "Is it possible that you can love me?"

"No!" she answered, hurriedly. "I do not love
you! That is, I mean I love everybody, and you
more than others; but oh, David, feeling sure that
you love me, for you told me so once "

"I was mad in my presumptuous folly " began

the youth.

"Feeling sure that you love me, because you told
me so once, although I do not love you yet more
than others, I will be your wife and try to love you
more, if only you will take me far away from this
place at once and forever, David! If you ever
cared for me, stop to ask no questions ; but do as I
ask you, and you shall have my hand and all that I
possess!" she breathed hardly, looking over her
shoulder at intervals, with a nervous, expectant,
terrified manner.

"Miss de la Vera, it is you who are mad now !" he
replied, in a tone of ineffable sadness and longing,
as he gazed on her with something like consterna
tion.

6 GLORIA

And well lie might ! The situation was astound
ing!

Here was this young girl, Gloria de la Vera, the
daintiest beauty, the wealthiest heiress in the
country, proposing to marry HIM, the poor young
fisherman attached to the estate! It was wonder
ful, unprecedented, incrediblel

Why, half the young men in the community were
mad to get her. A smile of hers would have brought
the best of them to her feet.

And yet she came to give her hand and her for
tune to this poor, unlearned young fisherman !

"Nothing, nothing but temporary insanity could
have betrayed her into such a reckless proposal, "
said the young fisherman to himself.

Yet the girl who stood there before him, calm,
pale, and steadfast as a marble statue, was not in
sane no, nor immodest, nor unmaidenly, however
appearances might tell against her.

Neither had she done any wrong, or even suffered
any wrong; for she had scarcely a fault in her na
ture to lead her into any evil, and never an enemy
in the world to do her any injury.

Nor had she quarreled with a betrothed lover and
sought to revenge herself upon him by rushing into
this low marriage; but she had never been in love
and never been engaged.

Neither did she hurry towards matrimony as a
refuge from domestic despotism, for she was the
petted darling of a widowed and childless uncle,
who had been a father to her orphanage; and she
had had her own right royal will and way all her
little life.

If there were any despotic tyrant at old Promon
tory Hall, that tyrant was the dainty little beauty,

GLORIA T

Gloria de la Vera herself, and if there were any
"down-trodden" slave, that victim was the re
nowned military hero, Colonel Marcellus de Cres-
pigney!

Why, then, since no reasonable, nor even unrea
sonable motive could be found for the mad act,
should Gloria de la Vera wish to hurl herself head
long down into the deep perdition of a low and love
less marriage?

To elucidate the mystery we must narrate the in
cidents of her short life.

On the coast of Maryland there is a bleak head of
land thrown out into the sea, and united to the
main only by a long and narrow neck of rocks.

If this weird headland had been a little loftier it
would have been a promontory or if the neck of
rocks had been a little lower it would have been
an island.

As it happened, it was neither, or it was both;
for, at low tide, when the neck was bare, the head
was a promontory, and at high tide, when the waves
rolled over the rocks, it was an island entirely sur
rounded by the sea.

The ground arose gradually from the shore to the
centre, upon the highest and safest part of which
stood a large, square, heavy, gray stone building,
in a yard inclosed by a high stone wall.

Lower down on the shore was another wall,
called the sea-wall.

Beyond this, on the sand, were a few scattered
fishing huts and boat-sheds.

There was but little vegetation on the place, and
the nearer the shore the sparser the growth. On
the hill near the house, indeed, there were a few
old oaks, said to have been planted more than two

8 GLORIA

centuries before by the first owners of the soil and
builders of the house. There were also a few gigan
tic horse-chestnuts and other fine forest trees; but
all these had been transplanted from the mainland
ages before. There was nothing of native growth
on the promontory.

Behind the house was an old garden, where
"made soil" was so rich that the place had grown
into a perfect thicket of shrubs, vines, creepers,
bushes, and all sorts of hardy old plants, flowers,
and fruit-trees.

Behind this was a kitchen garden, where a few
vegetables were with difficulty raised for the use
of the family, and bejond were fields of thinly grow
ing grass and grain, that barely afforded sustenance
for the cattle and sheep on the premises.

Altogether this half sterile promontory, with its
square, massive gray stone mansion, its high stone
yard- wall, its strong stone sea-wall, its iron gates,
and its grim aspect, looked more like a fortress
or a prison than the hereditary home of a private
family.

The locality had also a bad reputation, and a
worse tradition, besides as many aliases as any pro
fessional burglar.

It was called Pirates Point, Buccaneers Bridge,
and La Compte s Landing.

The story, or the history, was that this place had
been the frequent resort of the notorious freebooter,
La Compte, whose nom-de-guerre of "Blackbeard"
had been, in the old colonial days, the terror of the
Chesapeake and its tributaries.

Vast treasure, it was said, had once been buried

GLORIA 9

here, and might still be waiting its resurrection
at the hands of some fortunate finder.

However that might have been, whatever wealth
of gold, silver, or precious stones might have lain
hidden for ages in the depths of that sterile ground,
it is certain that the last proprietor of the promon
tory was poor enough.

He was Marcellus de Crespigney, a retired officer
of the army, an impoverished gentleman.

At the time our story opens, Colonel Crespigney
was a young widower, without children and with
out family, if we except his maiden aunt, Miss
Agrippina de Crespigney, and his youthful ward,
Gloria de la Vera.

His history may be very briefly summed up. He
was the second son of a wealthy Louisiana planter,
whose estate being entailed upon the eldest male
child, left little or nothing to younger brothers
or sisters.

Marcellus, when required to select a profession,
being of a grave and studious disposition, would
have preferred divinity or medicine, but finally
yielded to the wish of his father, and entered West
Point Military Academy to be educated for the
army.

At the age of twenty-one he graduated with
honors, and then went to spend a short leave with
his parents previous to joining his regiment.

He met them by appointment at Saratoga, which
was at that time the headquarters and great sum
mer resort of Southern families, flying from the
fierce heat and fatal fevers of their native districts
to the cool breezes and healing waters of the North.

And here, Marcellus, or, as he was most fre
quently called, Marcel de Crespigney, met the great

10 GLORIA

misfortune of liis life, for here he first saw the lady
who was destined to be his wife.

Marcel de Crespigney was one of the handsomest
men of his time. At the age of twenty-one he was
as beautiful as Apollo. His form was of medium
size and fair proportions, his head stately and well
set, his features Romanesque in their regularity
and delicacy of outline; his hair and beard were
dark brown, and closely curled ; his eyes dark hazel,
with a steady, thoughtful, sympathetic gaze that
had the effect of mesmerizing any one upon whom
it fell.

Such beauty is too often an evil and a cause of
weakness in man. It frequently inspires and
nourishes vanity, and saps and blights true man
liness.

Such, however, was not its effect upon Marcel de
Crespigney.

He had his fatal weakness, as you will presently
discover; but that weakness did not take its root
in self-love quite the contrary.

If he had possessed vanity, however, he would
have found a surfeit of food for it.

Wherever he appeared, he was noticed as the
handsomest man in the company, and many were
the light-headed and soft-hearted girls who fell
more or less in love with him.

At Saratoga, in the immediate circle of his
mother and sisters, he met a party of West Indians
the Count Anton i a de la Vera, an aged Portu
guese grandee, his young wife, the Countess
Eleanor, her sister, Eusebie La Compte, and their
three-year-old daughter, named after the good
Queen of Portugal, Maria da Gloria; but for the
radiant beauty of her fair complexion, golden hair,

GLORIA 11

and sapphire eyes, which she inherited from her
mother, they called her Gloria only.

Of all the people present, this child took suddenly
and solely to the young lieutenant. She would
leave father, mother, auntie or nurse, to leap into
the arms of her "Own Marcel," as she soon learned
to call him. It was wonderful; and superficial
people said it was his gay uniform that attracted
the child but then the child looked only at his
eyes!

But there was another of the West Indian party
who found great pleasure in the presence of Marcel
de Crespigney. This was Miss Eusebie La Compte,
the sister of the Senora Eleanor.

They, the sisters, were not West Indians, but
Marylanders, orphan daughters and co-heiresses of
old George La Compte, of La Compte s Landing and
Pirates Promontory.

In the division of the estate after the death of
their parents, the most valuable portion, La
Compte s Landing, had been given to the eldest
daughter, Eleanor, and the least desirable, Promon
tory Hall, to the youngest, Eusebie.

It was while the sisters were residing at the
house of their guardian, an eminent lawyer of
Washington city, that they made the acquaintance
of the Count de la Vera, then ambassador from
Portugal. He was a bachelor, and attracted by the
radiant blonde beauty of the elder sister, he had
proposed for her hand.

Eleanor, whose heart was free, and whose fancy
was fascinated by the prospect of rank, wealth and
position, promptly accepted the offer, and in due
time became Madame de la Yera.

12 GLORIA

A brilliant season in Washington followed their
marriage, then a tour of the fashionable watering-
places.

Finally, when the ambassador was recalled, he
went to Lisbon to resign his portfolio, and then
he came back and settled down on his West Indian
estates.

But not for long.

Troubles broke out. Possessions were insecure.

Count de la Vera sold off his property and came
to Maryland, the native State of his beautiful wife,
where he invested largely in land.

By this time the Senora Eleanor s health began
to fail. Then her doling husband sent for her sister
to travel with her, and to help to relieve her of the
care of their infant daughter, Gloria.

They all went to Saratoga together, and thus it
happened that we found them in the company of
Madame de Crespigney and her daughters.

Eusebie La Compte, the heiress of the bleak prom
ontory, had not the radiant beauty of her sister,
whose brilliant complexion, shining golden hair
and sparkling blue eyes had been inherited by her
daughter; no, the pale face, sandy locks and gray
eyes of Eusebie formed but a tame copy of the
brighter picture.

Yet Eusebie could not be called "plain," and far
less "ugly." Her form seemed cast in the same
mold as that of her beautiful elder sister, only it
was thinner. Her profile had the same classic facial
angle, but it was sharper. Her complexion was
quite as fair, only it was paler. Her hair was of
the same color, only it was duller. Her eyes were
of the same hue, but they were dimmer.

GLORIA 13

If Eusebie had been healthy and happy, she
would have been as beautiful and brilliant as her
sister; or if she had been smitten, as Eleanor had,
by hectic fever only, which gives color to the cheeks
and light to the eye. But to be afflicted with
malaria, which dulls the complexion and dims the
eyes, is quite another thing.

Nevertheless, there were times when Eusebie was
almost beautiful. It was when any strong emotion
flushed her cheeks and fired her eyes.

The West Indian party did not go much into
society. The health of Seuora Eleanor forbade
their doing so. The only company they saw was
our party from Louisiana.

The illness of the mother and the negligence of
the nurse, threw the little Gloria very much upon
the care of Eusebie, who was almost always to be
found in Madame de Crespigney s circle.

Thus it happened that Eusebie and Marcel were
brought daily together, and united by their common
interest in the beautiful child, Gloria.

So Eusebie, the pale, agueish girl, fell in love
with the handsome young Marcel fell in love with
him, not after the manner of the soft-hearted girl,
who sighed in secret and slipped out of sight, but
after the manner of the woman who says to herself,
"Love or death/ and thinks tow r ards her victim,
"Your love or your life!"

Marcel de Crespigney being of a tender, affec
tionate, sympathetic nature, had been more or less
in love all the days of his youth. In earliest in
fancy he was ardently in love with his nurse. At
five years old he was passionately enamored of his
nursery governess, a bright young Yankee girl.

14 GLORIA

And when she married the Methodist minister,
Marcel wept tears of agony. His Sunday-school
teacher, an amiable old maid, was his next flame.
When she died of yellow fever he put crape on his
little cap and flowers on her grave.

Then followed, as queens of his soul his sisters
music mistress, his mother s seamstress, and the
overseer s sister-in-law. At the age of fifteen he
actually offered marriage to the doctor s widow, a
genial, soft-eyed, warm-hearted matron of thirty-
five, who, in her wisdom and goodness, refrained
from wounding his affection by contempt, but
gravely and kindly assured him that, though she
declined to be engaged then, yet she would wait
for him, and if he should be in the same mind five
years from that time, she would listen to him.

The boy left her, in ecstasies of hope and hap
piness, after vows of unchanging, eternal fidelity.

But he did not remain in the same mind, which
was fortunate, as the doctor s widow also died, and
of yellow fever.

At the age of seventeen, when the young man en
tered West Point, as we have said, he would have
speedily contracted a pure, platonic love for the
colonel s \vife, a handsome and intellectual lady of
middle age, only a high sense of honor warned him
of the danger of such moral quicksands.

After this the boy devoted himself to his military
studies, and the sentiment of spoonyism soon gave
place to the sentiment of heroism.

Yes, Marcel de Crespigney had been in love nearly
all his life; but he was neither vain enough nor
observant enough to perceive the preference be
stowed on him by his young lady friends; nor would
he ever have known the infatuation of Eusebie La

GLORIA 15

Compte, had not his mother discovered and revealed
it to him.

In the eyes of Madame de Crespigney, the pale
Eusebie seemed a very eligible match for her por
tionless son. Report had exaggerated the riches of
the co-heiresses. The elder sister had married a Por
tuguese grandee. Altogether the connection seemed
a good one in a social and financial point of view.

Of course, Madame de Crespigney did not set the
matter before her son in that light. She knew Mar
cel too well. She adroitly directed his attention
to the delicate girl, and enlisted his sympathies for
her, so that he soon perceived how the pale cheeks
would flush, and the dim eyes fire, and the whole
plain face grow radiant and beautiful in the love-
light of his presence. His heart was free, and so
he became interested in her. He thought she was
the first who had ever loved him, and so he grew to
believe that he loved her.

At least he proposed to her and was accepted.

As the young officer had but a month s leave be
fore joining his regiment, that was under orders
to march for Mexico to join General Scott s army
on the first of September, and as the bride-elect
decided to accompany her intended husband, "even
to the battlefield," the engagement was a short one.
The wedding was hurried.

On the morning of the twenty-fifth of August the
young couple were quietly married in the nearest
church, and immediately after the ceremony they
set out for Washington, where Lieutenant de Cres
pigney joined his regiment, which was on the eve
of departure for the seat of war.

I do not mean here to tell over again, even the

16 GLORIA

least part, the oft-repeated story of the Mexican
War, but only to allude in the briefest manner to
Marcel de Crespigney s share in it. He went to
Mexico, accompanied by his bride, who was with
him wherever duty called.

She spent the first three years of her married life
in camps, on battle-fields, and in hospitals, and so
did her woman s share of the work.

He behaved gallantly from first to last, as is best
shown by his military record. For, having entered
the service at the beginning of the war with the
rank of second lieutenant of cavalry, he left it at
the close with that of colonel and brevet brigadier-
general.

At the earliest solicitation of his wife, he then
resigned his commission and retired with her to
private life, on her estate at Pirates Promontory,
the principal wealth of which consisted in its great
fisheries.

No children had come to them to crown their
union, and this want had been a source of disap
pointment to the husband and humiliation to the
wife, that even threatened in the course of time to
estrange them from each other.

They must have continued to live a very lonely
life on their remote estate "the world forgetting,
by the world forgot" but for circumstances that
occurred in the first year of their residence at the
Promontory.

These were the deaths of the aged Count de la
Vera and his fragile young wife, who passed away
within a few days of each other, leaving their
orphan child, Maria de Gloria, to the care of her
maternal aunt and uncle, who gladly received her.

GLORIA IT

CHAPTER II

MARIA GLORIA DE LA VESA

A willful elf, an uncle s child,
And half a pet and half a pest,

By turns angelic, wicked, wild,
Made chaos of the household nest.

ANON.

GLORIA was seven years old when she came to
live with her uncle and aunt. She was too young
and too bright to realize the loss she had sustained
in the death of her parents, or to grieve long after
them. And besides was it a new affection, or was
it a reminiscence of the old one? She soon became
devotedly attached to her uncle.

It was a grim home to which the radiant child
had been brought; but nothing could dim the
brightness of her spirit or depress the gladness of
her heart not old Promontory Hall with its gray,
massive, prison-like structure, its high stone walls,
and its dreary sea view, drearier than usual in the
dull December days in which Gloria looked upon it
not even the deadening coldness that was creep
ing like a blighting frost between the husband and
the wife a coldness that the warm-hearted child
felt rather than understood.

This condition, it must be confessed, was the
fault of Eusebie rather than Marcel. It grew out
of the jealousy and suspicion that had their root
in her inordinate and exacting affection for him.

Her self -tormenting spirit whispered that he had
never really loved her, but had married her out of

18 GLORIA

compassion, or : worse still, that he had never even
cared for her in any manner, but had taken her for
her little fortune alone. She saw that, as the years
passed away, and hope of a family died out, he was
disappointed in the continued absence of children,
and she persuaded herself that he secretly hated
and despised her for not giving them to him.

All this wore out her health and spirits.

And so she grew more and more irritable and
petulant, often repelling his best-meant efforts to
comfort and cheer her telling him she wanted
none of his capricious sympathy, his hypocritical
tenderness; she could live without either.

All this he bore with the greater patience because
he knew it could not last long because he saw the
fiery soul was burning out the fragile body, and
because he felt that there was a grain of truth in
the stack of falsehood. It was this that he had
married her for pity, or for such love as pity
inspires.

The coming of Gloria into this house of discord
had been as the advent of an angel in purgatory.
Her very presence had a mediating, reconciling
power.

Yet it must not be supposed that Gloria was a
real angel, or that her coming brought perfect peace
to the household. Far from this. Gloria had a
fiery little spirit of her own that sometimes flamed
out at very inconvenient times and seasons, and
the most she did towards restoring harmony was
to restrain by her bright presence the expression
of harsh feelings, and to prevent the estrangement
breaking out into open warfare.

While they would be sitting silent and sullen, at
the same fireside, in the long back parlor that

GLORIA 19

looked out upon the leaden sky and sea of these
dull December days, he would be apparently ab
sorbed in the perusal of some favorite old classic
author, she would be engaged in knitting, the glit
tering, fine, long needles glancing in and out be
tween her delicate white fingers, in round after
round of stitches for she was a great knitter of
lamb S-wool hose the child would be sitting on the
carpet somewhere near, earnestly employed in
dressing her doll, drawing on her slate, or cutting
figures out of paper but always singing some little
song to herself, filling the room with harmony.

How could the sullen couple break into open war
fare in her presence?

Yet sometimes they did so. A dispute would
arise out of that dull silence, as a breeze would
spring over the gray sea, and blow into storm in
one case as in the other.

The gust always arose from Eusebie s quarter.
And Marcel always got the worst of it.

Often little Gloria would see him grieved,
humiliated, yet silent and patient, under his wife s
false accusations and bitter reproaches.

Then her soul would be filled with sympathy, her
song would cease, her playthings drop, and she
would get up and take her little stool and go and
sit down by his side and slip her small hand into
his and lay her bright head on his knee.

This always quelled the rising storm. It pre
vented Marcel from retorting, however much ex
asperated he might be, and it eventually silenced
Eusebie, for no one can keep up a quarrel alone.

Gloria s interference did not always stop at sym
pathy for Marcel. It sometimes, indeed, broke out
into righteous indignation against Eusebie.

20 GLORIA

On one occasion, she had heard her unhappy aunt
taunt him with his want of fortune and charge
him with mercenary motives in marrying her.
She had seen her uncle s dark cheek flame, and had
noticed how hard it was for him to keep his temper ;
and she had left her play and gone and sat down
by his side, and put her little arms around his knee
and laid her shining head upon it.

That had soothed and silenced him. He could not
give way to his evil spirit in the presence of the
child.

But, mind, when at length he arose and left the
parlor, and Gloria found herself alone with her
aunt, she rebuked that passionate woman fear
lessly.

"You treat my uncle worse than you would dare
to treat any negro slave on the promontory," she
exclaimed, in angry tears.

"He is not your uncle," was all the lady said in
reply.

"He is your husband, then ! And you treat him
worse than you would dare to treat any one else
in the world, just because he is a gentleman and
cannot retort upon you. You just dare to talk to
old Phia as you talk to him, and she would give
you such a tongue-lashing as you would not get
over in a month."

"If you do not cease your impertinence at once,
Miss, I will give you such a whip-lashing as you
won t get over in six !" exclaimed the angry woman.

"No you will not, auntie ! If you were to lay a
whip upon me, only once, you would repent it all
your life, and you would never have a chance to
do it again. You are my auntie; but my uncle is
my guardian, and he would lead me out of this

GLORIA 21

house and we would never return to it. You know
that!"

"Oh, Heaven ! It is too true, for he loves me not
at all !" breathed the poor woman, losing all self-
command, and utterly breaking down in humilia
tion.

In a moment the child was at her side at her
feet.

"Oh, auntie, poor auntie, don t cry ! I have been
naughty, very naughty! And I am sorry, very
sorry ! Indeed you may strike me now, if you want
to, for I do deserve it now !" she said, trying with
all her heart to soothe the weeping woman.

But Eusebie clasped the child to her bosom and
burst into a passion of sobs and tears.

"I love you, auntie, dear. I do love you, and I am
so sorry I was so naughty," said the child, clasping
the unhappy creature around the neck and lavish
ing caresses on her.

But Eusebie only sobbed the harder for all this.

"And uncle loves you, auntie, dear, indeed he
does, although you do always tell him that he
doesn t care for you. I know he does, for when you
are" the child was about to say "cross," but
checked herself in time, and continued "when you
are unhappy he looks at you so pitifully."

"Oh, Gloria, you don t know anything about it,
and I don t want his pity. I am not a dog or a
beggar," exclaimed Eusebie, bitterly, as she put her
niece from her lap and hurried from the parlor to
her own room, to give unrestrained way to her
grief.

This heart-sick and brain-sick poor woman was
the plague and curse of the household, and such
scenes as these were of frequent occurrence.

22 GLORIA

Little Gloria acted always as a peacemaker, and
always successfully; only once in a long time did
her sense of justice rouse her indignation to the
height of upbraiding her "auntie," and then her
quick bursts of temper were followed, by as quick
repentance and reparation. She was very im
pulsive

"A being of sudden smiles and tears."

This sw r ift impulsiveness, with its sudden action
and reaction, was the keynote to her whole char
acter, the "kismet" of her life.

As yet she was the peacemaker of the house, and
all within it felt that this had been her mission
to the household. Even the old family servants
put their heads together confidentially, or shook
them wisely, while they whispered :

"Whatever de trouble is atween de two, marster
and mist ess done been parted long a merry ago if
it hadn t been for little Glo>."

Indeed, this Promontory Hall, with its high, en
closing walls, and the gray sea rolling around it,
and the estranged, unhappy pair within it, must
have been a very dull, dreary and depressing home
for any child who had not, like Gloria, an ever
springing fountain of gladness in her own soul.

As soon as the long winter was over, and the sun
shone warm and bright, and the earth grew green
and the sea, blue, Gloria was out and abroad, with
the earliest birds and flowers, as bright as the
brightest, and as glad as the gladdest.

With the revival of all nature there was a great
revival of business also in the fisheries appertain
ing to the Promontory and its neighboring isles.

GLORIA 23

The place that was so solitary all the winter was
now all alive with fishermen, whose huts and tents
and sheds dotted all the little islands within sight
from the promontory. No fishermen except those
in the service of the family were allowed to haul the
seines, or even cast a net from the home beach.

Among the fishermen attached to the service of
the family was a young lad of about twelve years
old. His parents had passed away, leaving him in
the care of his grandmother, who lived in a tiny,
sandy islet that stood alone, half a mile east of the
promontory.

Who had been the original owner of the little
sandhill no one ever knew; for the property was
not of sufficient value to stimulate inquiries; and,
besides, it had been for ages past occupied by a
family of squatters, the present representatives of
whom were David Lindsay and his grandmother.

It was on a brilliant May morning that the little
Gloria, in her wanderings about the promontory,
came to a broken part of the old sea-wall, and, insti
gated by curiosity, clambered over the stones and
looked out upon a long stretch of sands upon which
sheds, huts, and stranded boats were scattered
among nets, seines, sea-weed and driftwood.

The child, standing in the breach of the wall,
paused to gaze with interest on the rude scene that
was so entirely new to her.

Then she saw a boy seated amid a drift of nets
and seines, with a reel of coarse twine and a large
wooden needle in his hand, busy with some work
that quite absorbed his attention ; for he neither
saw nor heard the approach of the little girl.

She, on her part, stood still and watched him
with surprise and delight

24 GLORIA

The solitary child had not seen another child of
any sort, white or black, girl or boy, for more than
a year. She had lived only with grown-up people,
and very "scroobious" and depressing grown-up peo
ple at that. Now her heart leaped for joy at the
sight of an angel from her own heaven another
child!

What if he was a poor little lad, with a torn
straw hat set on his tangled black curls, a sunburned
face, a patched coat, trowsers rolled up to his knees,
and below them naked legs and feet? He was an
other child an angel from her own heaven! He
had come with the sun and the spring, with the
birds and the flowers. Here was the crowning joy
of the season indeed.

He would be her playmate. He would not rail
and weep like Eusebie, nor sigh and groan like Mar
cel. He would be glad like herself.

Without an instant s hesitation she ran down to
him.

Children, when left to their own intuition, are the
most simple and natural democrats and repub
licans. They care nothing and know nothing of
caste. When misled by others, they may become
the most repulsive little aristocrats alive.

She stood before him breathless, smiling.

As for the boy, he looked up at her in pleased sur
prise at the brightest vision that had ever glad
dened his eyes.

"Little boy !" she exclaimed, in a tone of kindly
greeting.

"Yes, little girl," he answered, as he arose, drop
ping his nets and taking off his torn hat.

"I m so glad to see you !" she exclaimed, smiling.

"So am I, you. Will you sit down on the boat?

GLORIA 25

It is quite dry," lie said, as he pointed to the up
turned skiff upon which he himself had been seated.

"Oh, yes, I thank you. I would like to sit down
because I have been walking all over the promon
tory and I am so tired," she said, as she seated her
self.

"Put your feet on this stone, the sands are damp,"
said the lad, as he placed a flat piece of rock near
her.

"Yes ; I thank you. And you sit down, too. Don t
you stand," she continued. He obeyed the little
lady, and seated himself beside her.

"Oh, I am so glad I found you!" she exclaimed,
with dancing eyes.

"So am I you ; very glad," he answered, quietly.

"Have you got anybody to play with?" was her
next question.

"No," he replied.

"No more have I. What is your name, little boy?"

"Dave."

"Dave? That means David, doesn t it?"

"Yes, David ; but everybody calls me Dave."

"Well, what else is your name besides David?"

"Lindsay David Lindsay."

"Oh ! Uncle reads to us about one

" Sir David Lyndsay of the Mount,
Lord Lion, King at Arms.

Was he any kin to you?"

"No, there ain t no kings nor lions about here,"
replied the lad, laughing.

"I don t know. I didn t think there was any chil
dren or playmates about here; but after finding you
I should not wonder if I found kings and lions and
and dwarfs and fairies."

26 GLORIA

"I never saw any about here," said the lad, de
cidedly.

"David Lindsay, don t you want to know what
my name is?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, then, why don t you ask me?"

"Because I don t know I didn t like to."

"Well, my name is Maria da Gloria de la Vera !"

"Oh ! what a long name !"

"Yes, but it is a beautiful name, with a beautiful
meaning."

"What does it mean?"

"I believe, but I don t quite know, that it means
the Glory of the Truth, or something like that."

"It is too long."

"Yes, it is long as it is spelt and written ; but not
as it is pronounced, for it is pronounced Davero
Gloria Davero and the colored folks have got it
down to little Glo ."

"Oh, I like that ! Little Glo !" said the lad, with
animation.

"Do you? I am so glad! What does your name
mean, David Lindsay?"

"I m blest if I know w r hat it means, if it means
anything at all."

"But it must mean something, David Lindsay.
All names do."

"Well, then, I will ask my grandmother."

"Yes, do. Do you like me, David Lindsay?"

"Oh ! yes, indeed I do."

"So do I you, ever so much. What is that you
are doing with that long wooden needle and big
ball of cord, David Lindsay?"

"I am mending nets."

GLORIA 27

"Oh, how curious it is. Will you show me how to
do it, David Lindsay? Is it hard to do?"

"No, it is easy. I will be glad to show you," said
the boy, who then instructed her in the simple stitch
by which the nets were made.

"What fun !" exclaimed the child, as her slender
little fingers plied the wooden needle in and out
among the meshes. "Who taught you to do this,
David Lindsay?"

"I " The boy hesitated and looked puzzled,

and then said : "I don t know. I netted nets ever
since I could remember, and before, too, I reckon,
but not so large nets as these. I netted minnow
nets first, I remember that. I s pose father must
ha taught me."

"Have you got a father and mother, David Lind
say?"

"Yes, in Heaven," replied the lad, lifting his
broken hat and bending his head.

"So have I in Heaven. Have you got any broth
ers and sisters, David Lindsay?"

"No, not one."

"No more have I. Have you got any playmates?"

"No; never had any."

"No more have I. But now I have you, and you
have me, and we will be playmates, won t we?"

"Yes, indeed !"

"How old are you, David Lindsay?"

"I am almost twelve; I shall be twelve next
Fourth of July."

"Oh, what a splendid birthday! I shall be eight
the first of June!"

"June is a nice month, too. The roses are all
out," said the boy.

28 GLORIA

The little girl fell into thought for a few minutes,
and then she said :

"What made you lift your hat and bend your
head when you said Heaven/ David Lindsay?"

"Grandmother taught me."

" Grandmother ! Yes, you said grandmother be
fore."

"She is father s mother. Father was drowned in
a squall while out fishing when I was seven years
old. That was in the spring ; mother died of pleu
risy the next winter; a bitter, bitter winter, when
the snow lay two or three feet deep on the ground
and drifted around our little house, and there was
no one to bring us wood from the main but grand
mother and me, and we had to go for it in the boat
and couldn t bring but a little at a time; and we
had no doctor and that was the way poor mother
died."

Gloria s bright eyes were full of tears. She
slipped her hand in that of the boy and said :

"But maybe she would have died all the same.
My mother had everything in the world, and she
died. But you know neither of them really died;
they went to heaven."

"Yes," said the boy, in a low tone.

"Now, ain t grown people queer, David Lindsay?"

"How?"

"The way they talk. They will say one minute a
man has died and gone to heaven, and the next min
ute they will say he is buried in such a church-yard.
Now, how can he be in heaven and in the ground at
the same time?"

"I don t know. It is a great mystery," said the
boy, gravely.

"I don t like mysteries. I don t. They always

GLORIA 29

make me feel as if I was in a cellar, or some dark
place and in danger. And what is more, I don t
believe in them. I don t believe my father and
mother are buried in the ground. I believe they
both went out to heaven before that which they used
to live in was put in the ground. And, somehow,
inside of myself I know it is so. Do you like to
read, David Lindsay ?" she asked, abruptly.

"Yes; I learned to read and write at St. Inigoes
parish school ; but I have no books except Webster s
Spelling Book, and I know every word of that by
heart, even the fables."

"Oh, then I can bring you ever so many books. I
have a bookcase full, all of my own, in my room,
and uncle has a great room full, from the floor up to
the ceiling, all around the walls, you know."

"That is very good of you. I do thank you. You
are the little girl that lives up in the house, then
Colonel de Crespigney s niece?"

"Yes no. I mean I am Madame de Crespigney s
niece; though, do you know, it seems so strange, I
always feel as if he was more kin to me than she
is!"

"I suppose you love him best; that must be the
reason. Well, everybody loves Colonel de Crespi-
gney. I know I do. He took me on to work here out
of kindness, I am sure, for he couldn t really want
me, you see, so many colored people as he has !"

"He is very, very good, and very unhappy. Where
do you live, David Lindsay?" she inquired, with the
sudden transition of a child s thoughts.

"Do you see that little, tiny bit of an island out
there by itself?" he said, rising and pointing east
ward.

30 GLORIA

"What! that little sandbank?" she exclaimed in
surprise.

"Yes, there is a house on it."

"A mere shed."

"We live in it, grandmother and I. And we have
chickens and ducks, and a little bit of a garden, with
a made soil, where we raise radishes and lettuce
and cabbage and potatoes."

"No flowers?"

"Oh, yes ; a red rose-bush, and a white rose-bush,
and pinks, and pansies and larkspurs."

"Oh, that is pretty ! Is your grandmother nice?"

"Oh ! I tell you !" heartily answered the boy.

"Would she let me come to see her?"

"Why, of course she would, and glad !"

"Well, then, will you take me over there to see
your grandmother, David Lindsay?"

"Yes, indeed, that I will, if your uncle will let
you go."

"Oh, he ll let me. But how do you get over there,
David Lindsay?" inquired the child, gazing over
the expanse of water to the little dot that seemed to
be about half-way between the promontory and the
eastern horizon.

"Why, in my little row-boat, to be sure. There,
there it is, tied to that post," answered the boy,
pointing to a little skiff that was rocking on the
water.

"Oh-h-h! And you ll take me in that? Oh-h-h!
Won t that be splendid! When will you take me,
David Lindsay?" she exclaimed, with all a child s
eager delight in an anticipated holiday.

"To-morrow, if they will let you go. To-night
when I go home, I will tell my grandmother, and

GLORIA 31

she will have something to please you when you
come, you know."

"Will she? Oh, how nice. I am so glad I found
you. Ain t you glad you found me, David Lindsay? 1

"Oh, I tell you ! Yes, indeed ! I was so lonesome
here."

"So was I ! But we have found one another ; we
won t be lonesome any more, will we? We will
have such good times, won t we now, David Lind
say?"

"Ah !" exclaimed the boy.

"But, oh, I say ! See here ! I can t net any more.
This hard twine hurts my fingers dreadfully," said
little Glo , looking at her bruised digits.

"I thought it would. Put it up. It is dinner
time, too."

"Yes, I suppose it is, and I must go home," said
the child, rising reluctantly.

"Oh, no, please don t," eagerly exclaimed the boy.
"Stay here and have some of my dinner."

"Dinner!" exclaimed little Glo , looking all
around them in vain search of a kitchen.

"I have brought it with me in a basket," David
explained, as he lifted a little ragged flag-basket
from its hiding-place beside the boat. "Sit down
and have some."

"Oh, yes, thank you, so I will ! I like that !" she
answered, promptly reseating herself.

He then opened his basket, and took from it, first,
a coarse crash towel, which he handed to her, say
ing:

"Now please to set the table."

"Set the table?" she echoed, in perplexity.

"Yes, you know, spread that towel on the flat

32 GLORIA

stone by you, and I will hand you out the things to
put on it."

"Oh! yes, I know and play we are housekeep
ing!" she exclaimed, delightedly, as she laid the
cloth.

Then he handed her, in succession, a little
cracked, blue-edged white plate, a broken knife and
fork, a little paper of salt, another of bread, six
hard boiled eggs, and a dozen young radishes, all of
which she arranged upon the "table" with funny
little housewifely care.

-Now, this will have to be broiled," he continued,
as he took from the bottom of the basket a smoked
red herring on a cabbage leaf and laid it on the
boat.

"Broiled!" echoed the little housekeeper, as she
looked all about in search of a fire.

"Yes," he answered, laughing, as he went and
gathered up some dry, decayed driftwood, and broke
it into small chips, and piled it up on some stones.
Then he took a tinder box, flint and steel, from his
pocket, struck a light, and kindled a fire.

"Oh! that is grand!" exclaimed the delighted
child, as she watched him, for all this was play to
her.

When the fire had burned down to coals he laid
the herring on it.

A fine appetizing flavor soon arose.

Little Glo watched the boy as he turned the her
ring until it was done, and then put it on the blue-
edged white plate and set it on the table.

"Oh! isn t this just perfectly splendid!" again
exclaimed the child, as the two sat down to the
primitive meal.

GLORIA 33

They chatted faster than they ate at least little
Glo did.

When it was over and the plates and knife and
fork had been put back in the basket, the girl arose,
very unwillingly, to depart.

"I must go now," she said; "they will all be look
ing for me. But, oh ! I have had just such a grand
time, and I am so glad we found each other ! Ain t
you, David Lindsay?"

"Yes, indeed!" exclaimed the boy.

She laughed, kissed her hand to him, and ran off
home, singing as she went.

This was the first meeting between Gloria de la
Vera and David Lindsay ,the poor fisher-lad, whom,
a few years later, in her utter desperation, she asked
to marry her ; but many strange events were to hap
pen before she could be driven to such despair as to
cast her beautiful and blameless self, with her rank
and fortune, at the feet of this humble lad, "un
learned and poor," and lose herself in the deep dis
honor of a low and loveless marriage.

CHAPTER III

THE GIRL S MISSION TO THE BOY

She was his star. BYRON.

GLORIA, singing as she went, and skipping like a
kid from point to point, over the breach in the sea
wall, and dancing through the old grass meadows
and turnip fields hurried on towards her home.

Suddenly her song ceased, and she stood still.

34 GLORIA

She saw her uncle walking alone with slow and
melancholy steps, and his head bowed down upon
his breast.

She would have spoken to him, but he waved his
hand for her to go on to the house.

She looked at him wishfully, hesitatingly ; but he
only smiled sadly on her and repeated his gesture
with more emphasis.

Then she obeyed him and reluctantly went on.

"That was like meeting a ghost," she said; and
she sang no more that day.

She entered the house and met Sophia on her way
through the hall with a pail of hot water in her
hand and a look of indignation on her face.

"What s the matter, Phia? Has anything hap
pened? I met uncle outside the park wall and he
looked awful ! awful !" said the child.

"Well he mought," replied the woman, wrath-
fully. "There s been the biggest row you ebber seed
in yer life, and you not here to vent of it."

"Was it auntie and uncle?" inquired the child, in
a tone of awe.

"Hi, who else? Yes, honey, it was master and mis-
t ess and de debbil ! And you not here to carcum-
went Satin!"

"Oh, dear me, I m so sorry. How did it all hap
pen, Phia?"

"Hi! How I know, chile? Iwa n tdere. It hap
pen in de long sittin room, in course, where dey
most in gen al sits. Fust fing we cullud people
knowed was de bell rung wiolent, an I run up an
foun mist ess in fits an inarster tryin to fetch her
to. We toted her up stairs tween us an put her
to bed. But soon s ebber she could speak she seiu
marster out o de room. How does it allers

GLORIA 35

honey? De debbil! Dere ll be murder done here
some ob dese days always the debbil, an dis time
he had it all his own fernal way, cause you wa n t
here to carcumwent him."

"Oh, I am so sorry. Poor uncle! poor auntie!"
sighed the child, with a look of age and care coming
over her bright young face.

"I m mad ; I ain t a bit sorry ; I m mad. If dem
two fools was chillun, dey d just get good hoopins
for quarrelin so ; an bein grown-up dults, dey de-
sarves hoopin ten times as much as chillun, cause
dey s big ? nuff to know better ! I gwine up now to
put her feet in hot water. I d like to put him and
her bofe in hot water up to deir necks, an keep em
dere till they promise to have deirselves better!"
exclaimed Phia, as she took up the pail and went
up stairs.

Gloria looked after her. She felt as if she ought
to have rebuked the woman for her manner of speak
ing ; but then she did not wish to raise another do
mestic storm, and she knew that Phia had a tem
per that blazed up at a word, as stubble flames up
at a spark. Indeed, if the child had been required
to write Phia s name, she would naturally have
written it Fire, and thought that she was right.

She hung her hat and sack on the hall-rack, and
then went softly up to her aunt s room to sit with
her and be ready to run on any errand that was re
quired.

She sat patiently with her auntie all the after
noon, reading a volume of Peter Parley s story
books.

In the evening she left her, quietly sleeping, and
went down stairs to make tea for her uncle.

It was a rather silent meal. De Crespigney was

36 GLORIA

absorbed in thought, and never spoke to the child
unless she asked him some question, and then he
answered absently, though in the gentlest tone.

After tea she left him sitting in his old leathern
arm-chair by the small wood-fire that the chill air
rendered necessary even in June, and she went up
to her own room and crept into bed.

The next morning Madame de Crespigney ap
peared at the breakfast-table as if nothing had hap
pened. These stormy days are followed by calm
mornings in the moral as well as in the physical at
mosphere.

Gloria knew from experience that after such a
tempestuous misunderstanding as they had had on
the previous day, her uncle and aunt would have to
be left alone to come to a reconciliation. She was
also glad of such a good excuse to go out.

So, directly after breakfast, she went up to her
bedroom, opened her glass-doored bookcase, and,
after taking down and putting up volume after vol
ume, she selected two which she thought would be
most beneficial and acceptable to her new friend
these were the charming school-books : Peter Par
ley s First Book of Geography and Peter Parley s
First Book of History, then just coming into use,
both profusely illustrated with maps and pictures.

She put on her little rough-and-ready gray sack
and her felt hat for it was still chilly on the sea
side in early June took the two books under her
arm and left the house.

Singing as she tripped along, she hurried blithely
down to the breach in the wall, where she found the
fisher boy busily engaged in smoothing that passage
by laying the fallen stones a little leveller.

"Oh, good-morning, David Lindsay! Will you

GLORIA 37

take ine over in your row-boat to see your grand
mother this morning?" she asked as she came up.

"Oh, yes, indeed I will, and glad to do it !" replied
the lad, lifting his torn hat from his black curls and
holding out his hand to help her across the broken
wall.

She sat down on the boat to recover her breath,
while he said :

"I stayed here last night until ten o clock, work
ing to finish my nets, and so get time to take you
over to-day. And then I came at daybreak this
morning, and have been here ever since, so I have
earned a holiday."

"Oh, how good of you to take so much trouble for
me; but how could you see to do your work, after
the sun went down?"

"The stars came out. It was one of the brightest
starlight nights I ever saw! Besides, netting, you
know, is such mere finger-work, that I could almost
do it with my eyes shut. Are you ready to go?"

"Presently. Sit down here by me, I want to show
you something."

The boy seated himself beside her.

"Here," she said, producing the First Book in
Geography, and opening upon a page of engravings
in sections representing the five races of man.

"Oh-h-h I" exclaimed the boy in delight, as he took
the volume from her hands and gazed with devour
ing eyes upon the fascinating page.

He had never seen a picture of an Indian, an
Ethiopian, a Mongolian, or a Malay in all his life,
and now he gazed in a breathless rapture upon
these.

Pictures were almost unknown to him the pic
tures in his grandmother s old family Bible and the

38 GLORIA

half-a-dozen little illustrations above the fables in
Webster s Spelling Book, being all that he had ever
seen.

"Oh-h-h, you can t think how much I do thank you
for lending me this splendid book !" he exclaimed,
with fervent gratitude.

"Oh, indeed, I am ever so much obliged to you
for being so pleased with it! It makes me feel so
happy, you know! But turn over the next page.
Oh, there are ever so many more nice pictures in
it!"

"Are there?" he asked, and immediately turned
the page to discover more and more treasures
Esquimaux and white bears of the Arctic circle;
elk, moose, and reindeer, and red Indians of the
northern lakes and forests ; seals, beavers, Cana
dians, New England farms, churches, school-houses,
New York seaports, shipping, and warehouses;
Western prairies, forests and rivers ; Southern bays,
isles, and cotton plantations.

"Oh ! oh ! oh !"

What a treasury of happiness to the poor boy,
hungering and thirsting for knowledge, who had
scarcely ever seen three books or a dozen pictures
in his life before, and who had scarcely any con
ception of any world beyond the horizon of his nat
ural vision !

And as yet he had seen only a few index pictures
of North America.

South America and all the Western Hemisphere
was to follow in that delightful book.

"Oh, you never can know how much I thank you
for this beautiful book!" he exclaimed, with en
thusiasm.

"Why, don t I tell you I am ever so much obliged

GLORIA 39

to you for liking it so well !" said Gloria, her own
blue eyes dancing with the delight of delighting.

Over and over he turned the bewitching pages,
finding more and more pleasure as he went on even
to the end of the book the picture of the Cape of
Good Hope, with Cape Colony.

He had taken some time to look through the vol
ume, pausing long over each picture. So when he
closed it, he arose and said :

"I could sit all day and night and look at this
book, and forget to eat or sleep, I do believe; but I
reckon it is time for us to go now."

"No, sit down again. I have got something else
to show you," she answered.

He obediently reseated himself, and she put in his
hand "The First Book of History," profusely illus
trated with pictures of battles and conventions and
portraits of military heroes and statesmen.

"Oh-h-h !" again exclaimed the boy, as he opened
at a portrait of George Washington on one side, and
the signing of the Declaration of Independence on
the other.

He turned over page after page, finding fresh food
for intellect and imagination in every one, w r hile the
little girl watched him with her blue eyes sparkling
in sympathetic pleasure.

"Oh, how rich I shall feel, with these two books
to read every night ! I shall never go to bed at dusk
when granny does because I am lonesome. I shall
never be lonesome now," he said.

"I am so glad, and so very much obliged to you
for being so happy over them, David Lindsay," she
repeated, w r ith more emphasis.

There is no knowing how long the two children
might have lingered, sitting side by side on the old

40 GLORIA

boat he poring with rapture over the book, she
watching his enjoyment with ecstasy ; but the hour
of noon came and passed, and the healthy young
appetite of the boy would not allow him to "forget
to eat."

"Oh, how late it is!" he exclaimed, reluctantly
closing the book just at the picture of General
Washington receiving the sword of Lord Cornwallis
after the battle of Yorktown. "Come, we had better
go now."

"Well, yes, I suppose we had. You can read the
books every night, can t you, David Lindsay?"

"Yes, indeed. And when you are up at the house
enjoying yourself with all your friends, you may
think of me reading your books."

"Oh! they are your books, David Lindsay," she
hastened to exclaim.

"I daren t take them from you only as a loan;
but, oh! I can never thank you enough for that.
Come carefully over all this rubbish. Let me take
your hand. There, now, step into the boat and sit
down while I untie her. Don t be afraid. She will
not turn over."

The child suffered him to put her into the rough
little old shell that lay rocking on the sea.

He quickly unmoored the boat, got into it, seated
himself, and rowed towards the little sand-hill that
seemed a mere mote on the water.

David rowed vigorously, and the little skiff shot
over the sea, and rapidly approached the island.

First she saw the sandy little hillock ; next, that
there was a tiny house on it, with trees on the
farther side ; then, as the boat reached the shore and
grounded, she saw that the house was a small cot
tage with a gable roof and one chimney; with one

GLORIA 41

door and window on the ground floor, and one
tiny, square window above in the gable. There were
no shutters to the windows, but they were shaded
from within by flowered wall-paper blinds. The
little house was whitewashed with lime, and the door
was painted with red ochre, a coarse coloring mat
ter got from the soil on the main. A little garden
around the house, with a "made soil," was fenced
in with a whitewashed picket fence. Lilies, Canter
bury-bells, hollyhocks, pinks, larkspurs, and other
sweet, old-fashioned flowers grew in the front yard.
A red rose-bush and a white rose-bush were trained,
one on each side of the door. A white dog, of a
nondescript race, was asleep on the step, and a
black kitten was curled up snugly on his back.
These proverbial "natural enemies" had never been
anything but loving friends.

At the approach of David the dog sprang up,
wide awake, overturning the kitten, who put up her
back, gaped, and stretched herself, while Jack ran
forward and leaped upon his master, who did not
order him "down, sir !" but patted his head and re
turned caress for caress.

The red door opened then, and a smiling old
woman appeared Mrs. Lindsay, David s grand
mother.

She was a small, plump, fair-faced, blue-eyed
dame, with the white hair of sixty years parted
plainly over her forehead, and banded back under
a clean linen cap. She wore a striped blue and
white cotton gown, of her own spinning and weav
ing, and a white handkerchief folded over her
bosom, and a white apron tied before her gown.

She came forward, smiling pleasantly as she held
out her hand to the child, while she spoke to David.

42 GLORIA

"Is this the little lady you have brought to visit
me? I am very pleased to see thee, my dear."

"Oh, thank you, ma am ! It was so nice of you to
let me come ! And I like David Lindsay. He is all
the playmate I have got. But he s splendid !" said
the child, with enthusiasm.

The old woman smiled on her, patted the tiny
hand she held in her own, and then led her into the
house.

It was a good sized room, with clean, white
washed walls, the one window shaded with a home
made blind of flowered wall-paper; the floor of
wide planks, perfectly bare, yet scrubbed to a
creamy whiteness; in one corner a neat bed, with
a patchwork quilt and snowy pillows; in another
corner a loom, with a piece of cloth in process of
weaving ; in a third, a large spinning-wheel ; in the
fourth, a corner cupboard, with glass doors in the
upper part, through which might be seen the clean,
coarse, blue-edged crockery ware, and the bright
pewter dishes of the little menage.

In the middle of the floor stood a table covered
with a coarse but snow-white cloth, and adorned
with blue-edge cups and saucers and plates, while
on the clean, red ochre-painted hearth stood a tea
pot and several covered plates and dishes, before
the clear fire in the small open fire-place.

"Come, lass, let me take off ? ee coat," said the
kind little woman, beginning to unbutton and untie
until she had relieved the child of her hat and
sack.

"Now, sit ? ee down, lass, while I put dinner on
the table," she continued, depositing her small visi
tor on a low chip-bottomed chair, near the window-

GLORIA 43

sill, on which, stood a box of mignonette, that filled
the homely room with fragrance.

" Ee s late, Dave. I thought ee d be here wi the
lass an hour ago, and had all ready for ? ee," said
the old woman, as she began to place dinner on the
table.

"We were reading of a book what the little lady
loaned me," replied the boy, as he carefully placed
the two volumes on each side the Bible, which
stood upon a chest of drawers at the end of the
room, between the bed and the corner cupboard.

"It was my fault. I stopped David Lindsay to
show him the books," put in the child.

"It wasn t ? ee fault, then. It was ee goodness,
little lass. And it s na great matter. The dinner
is no sich that it can be spoiled," said Dame Lind
say, as she placed the last dish on the table, and
then led her small guest to a seat.

Poor as these cotters were in all things else, they
were not poor in regard to food.

The sea supplied them with fish for immediate
use, and for salting away against winter; the two
pigs that they bought and raised at a trifling cost
every year, provided them with pork and bacon;
the small poultry-yard with fowls and eggs; the
patch of garden with vegetables and fruit ; the little
Alderney cow with milk and butter.

The few other provisions they needed were easily
procurable at the nearest country store on the main,
in exchange for the excellent cotton hose and mit
tens knit by the industrious and skillful hands of
the old dame.

Other trifling expenses of the little household
were met by the money earned by David on the fish
ing landing of the promontory.

44 GLORIA

The dainty midday meat set before the little lady
guest was not at all an every-day affair, but was
got up expressly for her. It was very attractive
nice fragrant tea, with rich cream and white sugar ;
nice light, home-made bread, with sweet, fresh but
ter ; fried bluefish, just out of the sea; poached eggs
on toast; boiled spring chicken; mashed potatoes,
green peas, lettuce, radishes, and, finally, cherry
pie, strawberries and cream, and a plenty of new
milk.

Little Glo> ate well, like a healthy child, with an
excellent appetite, and no one near to curb it.

"It is the nicest dinner I ever had in all the days
of my life, and I have been at big dinner parties,
too, before I came to the promontory!" she de
clared, with equal frankness and emphasis, as she
arose from the table.

At least, it was the most enjoyable.

The old dame smiled on her, and David felt so
pleased and proud !

Ay! the Earl of Leicester entertaining Queen
Elizabeth at Kenilworth Castle could not have felt
more elevated in spirits by her majesty s august
approbation than was the fisher-boy by the pleasure
of his little lady guest.

"Mayhap ee ll come again to see us, little lady,"
said the old dame.

"Oh, indeed, indeed, indeed I will ! Just as often
as you ll please to let me come! Oh, it is so nice
here ! I ll be sure to come just as often as ever you
will let me come!" exclaimed the child, heartily.

"That will be as often as ee likes," said the old
dame.

Then, assisted by David, she hastily cleared away
the table, taking the dishes into the "lean-to" be-

GLORIA 45

hind the cottage, there to remain until she could
wash them up after the departure of the visitor.

Then she set herself to entertain the little lady.

She showed her all the few curiosities of the cot
tage some strange South Sea shells that had been
brought home by a sailor ancestor ages before, and
which now decorated the low wooden chimney shelf ;
then the rusty old gun that had been carried by her
own grandfather in the Revolutionary War; then
some stuffed birds, some skeletons of strange fish,
and some odd-looking pebbles from the beach.

Next she exhibited some of the small treasures of
her chest of drawers a curious patch-work quilt
that had won the prize in a certain agricultural
and industrial fair held at St. Inigoes many years
before.

"And did you sew all these little pieces of colored
calico and white cotton together with your own
fingers ?" inquired the child, with interest.

"Yes, dearie, I did."

"Oh, how curious and how pretty ! How I would
like to do that ! We have got ever and ever so many
calico and cotton pieces in the scrap-bags at home!
If I bring some over here, wben I come again, will
you show me how to cut the pieces into leaves, and
flowers, and things, and sew them together like
this?"

"Yes, little lass, I will teach ? ee with good will ;
for I do think it a merit to save up the scraps and
turn them to good account, though they do tell me
that now-a-days quilts are made by masonry, and
sell cheaper than we could make em by hand. Ee
sees, dearie, I use to make ? em to sell; but now I
can t get anybody to give me enough to pay for my
work on em. So now I knit socks and mittens."

46 GLORIA

"They make them by machinery, too," said the
child.

"Yes, and I shouldn t wonder and they didn t
come to hatch chickens by masonry some of these
days! Well a-day! No masonry stockings can
eekill my knitted stockings, and that the store
keeper knows, and allus takes em from me and pays
me well in tea and sugar, and whatever I may want.
As to the quilt-piecing, lass, I ll teach ee with good
will. Ee s a plenty of leisure, I ll warrant, and
? ee s well spend it that way in saving the scraps and
turning em to account as in another," concluded
the canny old dame, as she folded her prize quilt,
replaced it, and closed the drawer.

"Oh, I think it is such pretty and curious work,
and it is so economical!" said the little child-
woman. "I shall be so glad to learn !"

"She likes to learn everything she sees going on,"
added David, who, with his hands in his pockets,
stood a smiling spectator of the scene.

"That s right. Larn all ee can, little lass. Now
come wi me, and I ll show ee the young ducks that
were hatched yesterday."

"Oh !" cried the child, jumping up in glee. "I
never saw young ducks in all my life ! What a nice
place this is !"

"What! Don t they show ee the young things
up by, at the house?" inquired the dame.

"No, ma am ; they never thought of it, I reckon ;
no more did I," answered the child, as she followed
her conductress out into the poultry-yard.

She saw the young ducklings that were just out ;
then she saw the little chickens that were a week
old, and seemed to know as much about life as she

GLORIA 47

herself did. Then she was taken through the gar
den, and she saw the strawberry bed and the one
cherry tree, with its bright red fruit hiding in its
green leaves, and the crooked apple tree that bore
the green sweetings which would soon be ripe, and
the currant bushes along the walk, with the small
beds of peas and cabbage and corn between them,
and then the bee hive and the two white pigs, and
Winny, the little black and white cow, in her shed.

Then they went in.

"Oh ! what a nice place this is ! The nicest place
I ever saw !" said the child.

" Ee must come often to see it, if 7 ee likes it so
well," said the dame, who felt flattered by the
child s sincere admiration ; " ee must come often,
but now it is getting late i the afternoon, and I
must send ee home to ee friends, lest harm come
to ee through this visit."

David, who had kept close to the pair all the day,
now left them to get the boat ready.

The old dame carefully put on the child s hat and
sack, and then threw a shawl over her own head,
and led the little one down to the water s edge,
where David stood in the boat, waiting.

The child threw her arms around the old woman s
neck, and kissed her heartily, many times, thanking
her warmly for the "happy, happy day" she had
had.

The dame responded cordially.

David then handed the little girl into the boat,
unmoored, and rowed rapidly for the promontory
landing, which they reached in a few minutes.

The sun was just setting.

"Oh, David Lindsay, I have had such a splendid

48 GLORIA

time! Oh! I am so glad I found you!" exclaimed
little Glo , as he helped her out of the boat.

"Oh, so am I! Ever so glad! And I think we
ought to thank the Lord !" he added, solemnly.

"Oh ! I will, when I say my prayers to-night. Are
you going to study your books this evening, David
Lindsay?"

"Yes, indeed. What are you going to do?"

"Oh, I I think I will look out some more books
for you, and then I will hunt out some pretty bright
pieces of calico from the scrap-bag, to learn to make
patch- work quilts, and have them ready against the
next time I go to see your grandmother."

"When will you come again? To-morrow?" anx
iously inquired the toy, as he leaned on his oar.

"Oh, no, not to-morrow; not to see your grand
mother, to put her to so much trouble, you know;
but I will come down here to the landing to see you,
David Lindsay."

"Oh, yes, please do."

"Well, good-bye, David Lindsay."

"Good-bye."

"God bless you, David Lindsay!"

"And you, too."

"I won t forget to thank Him when I say my
prayers to-night."

"No more will I."

"Well, good-bye again, David Lindsay."

"Good-bye." He did not want to call her Miss
de la Vera, much less Miss Gloria ; he could not call
her little Glo\ He felt, without in the least under
standing his feelings, that the first style would be
too cold and stiff, and the last perhaps too familiar,
so he called her "you," putting all respect in his
low and modulated tone. There was much of na-

GLORIA 49

ture s gentleman in this poor little lad in the ragged
straw hat.

He waited, hat in hand, until she had turned and
tripped lightly over the broken sea wall and passed
out of sight.

Then he covered his head, sat down in his boat,
took the oar and reluctantly shoved off from the
shore, while she ran home, singing and dancing as
she went.

She ran into the house and went directly to seek
Sophia.

"Have they been worried about me, Phia?" she
inquired.

"No, honey; dey s been too much took up wid
spoundin an splainin bout yes day s fuss to fink
? bout you. Leastways, mist ess was ; dough marster
did quire arter you when dey sat down to dinner an
you wa n t dere. Says he:

" Whey s de chile?

"Says she:

" Oh, never mind de chile ; she s running round
de place somew ere, an Phia can give her her din
ner when she comes in. Tell me what you meant

by somefin or oder, Lord knows what, honey ;

but at it dey went, spoundin and splainin . But
where is you been all de live-long day, little Glo ?"
demanded the woman.

"Oh, Phia ! I have had such a happy, happy day T
replied the child.

And then she told the cook all about her visit,
adding :

"And granny Lindsay begged me to come ever so
often!"

"Yes, honey; mighty good ob de ole woman. I
knows her, honey, and has buyed mittens ob her

50 GLORIA

woolen mittens, which she knitted, Iv -ney. But you
mustn t go too often, honey. One fing, you mustn t
be too intimit wid people ob dat low order ob deei-
ety. Not as I am sayin but dey may be jes as good
as we is, in de sight ob de Lord, if dey haves deir-
selves; but still, ciety is to be despected. An
another fing, honey, is, dey can t deford it; dey
can t, indeed ; dey can t deford to tain a little lady
on fry chickens an sich, w r erry often."

Now, the first clause of this speech, concerning
caste, slipped through the child s ears without mak
ing the slightest impression, but the second clause,
about the expense of her visit to the fisherman s cot
tage, fixed her attention.

"Oh, yes, I thought of that ; so I told David Lind
say I could not go to-morrow. Phia, you are right,"
she said, as she ran up stairs. She did not go to
the sitting-room to interrupt the tete-d tete of her
aunt and uncle, but up to the attic to hunt for
bright pieces in the scrap-bag, singing and dancing
as she went.

When she met her relatives at tea that night they
did not even think of asking her where she had
been. They seemed to take it for granted that she
had come in soon after dinner, and had been prop
erly attended by Phia.

So the child s holiday escaped their notice.

The next morning, Gloria, true to her promise,
went down to the landing, wiiere she found David
sitting in the old boat, mending nets.

His face broke into a smile as he took off his hat
and stood up to receive her.

"Good-morning, David Lindsay. Did you study
your book last night?" she inquired, with childish
frankness.

GLORIA 51

"Oh, yes, indeed ! And I have brought the geog
raphy here with me to take a glimpse of it now
and then; but it is such a temptation to slight my
work, that I shall have to leave it home after this,"
replied the lad, still standing, hat in hand.

"Oh, no, don t you do that, David Lindsay ! Please
don t ! Bee, now, sit down and take up your netting
and go on with it, and I will sit by and read the les
sons out, and ask the questions at the bottom of the
page, so you can tell if you know them."

"Oh, yes, I shall like that ; for then I can do my
work and learn my lesson at the same time. How
good you are to me. What makes you so good to
me?"

"Why," she said, opening her blue eyes wide and
looking at him with surprise, "don t you know?
You are my playmate, and we are going to play
school?"

"Oh, yes."

"Now give me the book, David Lindsay, and sit
down and go on with your netting. Now, how far
had you got?" she inquired, when they were seated
opposite each other in the old stranded boat.

"Up to What is a cape? "

"Oh, yes, I can find the place. Now pay attention,
David Lindsay," she said, as she took up the book,
opened it, assumed a grave, school-ma am air, and
asked :

" What is a cape? "

" *A cape is a point of land pretending into the
sea, " answered the pupil.

" Ex-tending into the sea, David Lindsay," cor
rected the little teacher.

" EX-tending into the sea, " emphatically
amended the pupil.

52 GLORIA

"That is right. Now, then, What is a promon
tory? "

" *A promontory is a high point of land

"No!

"Yes."

"EX-tending into the sea !"

"That is right, David Lindsay. You will soon
learn geography."

She went on with the lesson, slowly drilling it
into the head of the boy, who, with his divided at
tention, was a fair illustration of "the pursuit of
knowledge under difficulties."

But before his little teacher left him that day, he
had managed to master the principal divisions of
land and water, and better than all, he had been
inspired with the love and desire of knowledge.

This was the little lady s mission to the fisher-lad,
who, a few years later, in the desperation of her
unparalleled extremity, she was to ask to be her
husband.

CHAPTER IV

LITTLE GLO^S JOY AND WOE

She grew a flower of mind and eye.

WORDSWORTH.

WE have lingered a little over these first days of
their childish friendship, because they were types
of so many days that followed, all through the bud
ding spring, the blooming summer, and the fruitful
autumn.

GLORIA 53

The little girl was allowed to do very much as she
pleased by her studious uncle and invalid aunt, as it
was scarcely possible that she would <k run into any
danger, or fall into any sin," on so isolated a place
as the promontory, where there was neither evil
companions or wild beasts to deprave or destroy
her.

On the main she might have been more closely
looked after; but here she w r as so safe that not a
thought was given to her safety.

So, every day, when it did not rain, little Gloria
went down to the landing to see her playmate and
read to him while he mended old nets and seines,
or made new ones.

At first she was only "playing school," but later
on she understood her work and grew interested in
the progress of her pupil; and thus her play rose
into "a labor of love."

Together they went through the First Book in
Geography, and the First Book in History, and the
Primary Grammar.

And in this way the child not only advanced her
pupil playmate, but refreshed her own memory in
those studies, which had been too much neglected
since her arrival at the promontory.

A pure, sweet, and faithful affection grew up be
tween the two children, such as we have sometimes
seen between two little girls or two little boys; only
because neither Gloria nor David had any other
playmate to divide their attention, their innocent
affection was all the stronger, deeper, and more de
voted in its exclusiveness.

Very often, too, the fisher-boy brought an invita
tion from his grandmother to the little lady to
spend a day on the sand-hill which the old dame

54 GLORIA

called her home. It was always accepted, and al
ways Gloria had "a happy, happy day."

She learned of the old cottager to net, to knit, to
sew, to piece patchwork quilts out of scraps of
bright calico and white linen, and to plait door
mats out of strips of brilliant cloth or flannel arts
not likely to be of much use to the West Indian heir
ess but she liked to learn them, notwithstanding.

"Wouldn t I make a right good little cottage girl,
after all, Granny Lindsay?" she once asked her old
friend, in her childish love of approbation.

" Ee would, my darling," said the old dame, ten
derly. " Ee would make a helpful, loving little lass
by the cottage fire, or a gracious benign princess in
a palace. The world s breath of sunshine is for ee,
my flower, from the cottage to the palace."

"I saw some palaces in Havana, but I would
rather have a cottage just like this ! Oh, I think a
cottage is so nice and cosy, and so SPLENDID !" ex
claimed the little girl, with child-like exaggeration
and misapplication of words.

So the once lonely child found much joy in her
humble friends, giving and receiving good, while
spring bloomed into summer, and summer ripened
into autumn, and autumn faded into winter.

The came cold, and frost, and change, a bitter
change for little Gloria.

Her playmate s work was now the clearing up of
the fishing landing, mending boats and oars, and
putting them away for winter work that could not
go on parallel with his studies, which were now
pursued in the evenings at his own home.

Yet Gloria came down late in the afternoon on
every clear day to hear him say his lessons. He told

GLORIA 55

her that this helped him on "ever so much." And it
pleased her.

One day after sunset, when she had heard her
pupil s lesson in a very elementary book of astron
omy, and had praised his quick apprehension and
patient application, and had greatly encouraged
him, as she always did, she took leave and ran home/
singing and dancing as she went.

When she reached the house, she found Phia at
the door, looking out for her.

"Oh, for goodness sake, come in, child," said the
woman, in a frightened tone.

"What what is the matter? What has hap
pened?" cried Gloria, catching terror from the
other.

"I dunno. Somefin* awful! Mistress has been
goin on at that rate! She done put de debbil in
marster now, sure ! Mind, I tell you, honey, dere ll
be murder done here some ob dese days ! Mark my
words I"

With a slight scream the terrified child fled from
this prophetess of evil toward the sitting-room,
where she heard the sound of high words.

She opened the door and hurried in.

And this was what she saw :

Her uncle standing on the corner of the hearth,
with his elbow on the mantel-piece, his head leaning
on his hand, whose fingers were clutched into his
black hair; his starting black eyes staring down
upon the floor; his black brows knitted, his teeth
clenched, his face pallid with suppressed passion.

Her aunt, with her white dress and yellow hair
in wild disorder, as if her own desperate hands had
rent and torn them, was raging up and down the
floor like a tigress in her cage, pouring forth all the

56 GLORIA

gall and venom of her jealous fury, in words that
might never be forgiven or forgotten.

Even the child intuitively perceived this, and
feared that the man, stung to madness by the
woman s venomed tongue, might be driven to some
rash act, fatal to them both.

She looked, shuddering, from one to the other.

It was terrible to see so fragile a creature as
Eusebie in the power of such a tremendous passion,
that seemed as if it must shrivel her frame as a cob
web in a flame. But it was more terrible to see in
Marcel s whole aspect the chained devil that might
break loose in destroying frenzy at any moment.
Full of fear and horror, the child crept trembling
to the man s side, put her arms around his waist,
which she could just reach, looked up piteously in
his face and whispered, in her coaxing tone :

"Uncle, uncle, uncle."

"My little angel," he murmured in reply, as his
stern dark face softened and brightened.

"Come away from that man this instant, Gloria,"
cried Eusebie, stopping in her wild walk and stamp
ing with fury. "Come away from him, I command
you! He is not your uncle! You shall not call
him uncle ! He is a traitor and a villain ! Come
away, I say!"

The child did not obey; she could not move; she
was half paralyzed by fear and horror, and more
likely to sink than to stand.

The man put his arm around her, and drew her
closer to him.

The woman stamped with fury.

"Let my niece go, you caitiff !" she screamed.

He did not reply to this, but lifted his head and
glared at her, while his face darkened and hardened.

GLORIA 57

The terrified child terrified for others, not for
herself pressed closely to him, as if, in extremity,
she would hold him back by her own baby strength,
and moaned, coaxingly:

"Uncle, uncle, uncle dear."

Again his face changed; he stooped towards her
and she laid her cheek against his lips.

"Come away from that man, or I will tear you
from him ! He is not your uncle ! He is no kin to
you ! He is nothing to you ! No ! I thank Heaven
that not one drop of his false, black bood runs in the
veins of any one belonging to me ! I have not even
a child! Ha! ha! I know the reason! Fiends are
not permitted to be fathers!" hissed the woman,
with all the hate and scorn that Satan could cast
into her face and voice.

Here the man s eyes glared so fiercely, while his
brow grew so black, that the child clasped him in a
frantic clutch, moaning, inarticulately, some words
of piteous deprecation to restrain him.

"Leave that wretch this instant, I command you !
His contact is infamy! Am I not to be obeyed?
Oh, then I will snatch you from him!" screamed
the woman, in blind fury, as she sprang towards
them ; but he was too quick for her.

He lifted the half-fainting child in his arms and
bore her swiftly out of the room.

"Oh, uncle, she is crazy ! She does not know what
she says! Don t mind her! Don t go back in the
room," coaxed the child, as she put up her hand
and stroked and patted his cheek. "Uncle, dear,
don t go back in the room ! Come with me to Granny
Lindsay s cottage. Oh, it is so heavenly there."

But now the man paid but little attention to what
she said. He pulled the bell-cord violently.

58 GLORIA

Phia ran to answer the bell.

"Take this child up to her bed-room, and stay
with her until she goes to sleep," he said, placing
the little girl in the strong arms of the colored
woman.

"Oh, uncle, don t go back to that room ! Don t,
or if you do, take me with you !" pleaded the child,
caressing his cheek with her hand.

"Go, my dear, go to bed. Pandemonium is no
place for babies. Leave me to deal with that de
moniac," he answered, grimly, as he turned away.

"Oh, uncle, don t mind her ! She don t know what
she says!" pleaded the child, stretching out her
hands imploringly towards him.

But he had re-entered the room and clapped the
door to behind him.

Gloria slid from the woman s arms, sat down on
the lowest step of the stairs and burst into tears.

"Come to bed, honey. Don t sit there crying. You
can t do no good by dat. You can t vent de debbil
from habbin his own way dis night," said Phia.

"Oh, I know I know I know!" sobbed the
child.

"Well, den, come along up to bed, and I ll stay
long ob you for company."

"Oh, I can t I can t I can t I m so fraid. Let
me sit here and wait "

"Wait for what?"

"Oh, till uncle comes out, or one of them does.
Oh, I couldn t go to bed ! I couldn t go to sleep and
leave them so! Hush!" suddenly exclaimed the
child, breaking off in her talk, and bending forward
her head and straining her sense in fearful atten
tion, as she heard her uncle s voice in low, tense, bit-

GLORIA 59

ter tones, and then her aunt s hissing tongue in
reply.

The child clasped her hands in a piteous, helpless
agony of prayer.

"Come, come, honey, come up to bed, and I will
sit by you and tell you pretty stories about foxes
and hares, and dwarfs and giants, and little pigs
and things, like I used to do," said Phia.

"Hush!" exclaimed the child, starting forward,
with staring eyes, as the voices in the closed room
sunk lower and became more bitter, intense and
hissing.

"Come, come, honey, you must come to bed.
Tain t right to be listening, nohow !" expostulated
Sophia, in virtuous indignation.

"Oh ! I know it is not ! I know it is not ! And I
can t hear a word they say. I only want to know

want to know Oh! I m so afraid! I m so

afraid, Phia!" gasped the child, shuddering from
head to foot.

" Fraid o what?"

"Oh! fraid of something happening!" panted the
little girl.

"You can t help of what happens, so what s the
use o bein afeard?"

At that moment the voices in the closed room
arose, both speaking together in violent, clashing
frenzy.

"Oh, Phia ! Let s go in ! Let s go in and stand
between them !" pleaded the child, springing up.

"Who? me? No, I thank you, honey! I m
spunky enough, but I ain t gwine to part a wolf
from a wildcat, dere !"

"Then I will ! I will !" cried the brave child, run
ning and flinging herself against the closed door;

60 GLORIA

but it was locked fast, and resisted all her efforts,
while the angry voices within clashed together in
rage.

Suddenly one voice arose above the other, with
the roar of an infuriated wild beast. It was her
uncle s voice. It cried:

"DIE, then ! and end it all !"

There was a heavy fall and groan.

With a shriek of horror Gloria arose and fled to
the negro woman and buried her face in her bosom.

The next instant the door was suddenly unlocked
and thrown open, and Marcellus de Crespigney
his face haggard, his eyes starting, his hair bris
tling ran out, tore open the hall door and rushed
from the house out into the winter night.

"I must go see what s happened," hastily mut
tered the black woman, in a voice full of awe. as
she put the child off her knee and went toward the
sitting-room.

Gloria, tottering, moaning, sobbing piteously,
followed.

The long room was silent and almost dark, for
the candles had not been called for, and there was
no light except from the smouldering logs of the
fire in the open chimney.

Fallen on a rug before this fire, lay a white form.

Sophia stooped to look at it, and instantly
started up in horror, crying out :

"Lord have mercy upon us! He has killed her!
Marster has murdered inist ess!"

HE HAD!

There in a little pool of her own blood, lay the
small, white face of Eusebie, with its eyes wide
open and glazed.

She was quite dead.

GLORIA 61

CHAPTER V

REMORSE

And well we know your tenderness of heart
And gentle, deep, compassionate remorse.

SHAKESPEARE.

FILLED with horror, that subdued all outward
show of emotion, the old black woman lifted the
light form of her mistress and bore it across the
room to the lounge.

Overcome with grief and terror, the child fol
lowed her, shaking as with a hard ague fit.

Phia laid the fast-stiffening body down on the
couch and straightened the limbs, and drew the
white dress down to the small, rigid feet.

Little Gloria stood by, clasping the woman s
skirts, and crying and sobbing as if her heart would
burst.

When Phia had decently composed the small
body, she went to the bell and rang it sharply, then
she turned the key of the door and came back to
her post.

She gazed for a moment on the poor, dead face,
and then tenderly closed the eyes, keeping her
fingers and thumb lightly pressed on the white lids.

Some one came running swiftly along the pas
sage outside, tried the lock, and then rapped.

Phia went and unlocked the door, holding it a
few inches apart, to prevent the entrance of the
new-comer.

There were but three servants in that reduced es-

62 GLORIA

tablishment Phia, her husband Laban, and her
daughter Lamia,

It was the latter who had come to answer the bell.

"What does yer want, mammy ?" inquired the
girl, seeing that her mother barred her farther
progress.

"You tell your daddy to run here right off. No
nonsense, now; not to lay a minute, but to run
here right off ! Yer hear me, don t yer?"

"Yes, mammy; but daddy done gone way in de
boat to Sinnigger s."

"Whey?" sharply demanded the woman.

"To Sinnigger s, mammy."

"What he done gone dere for, when he wanted so
bad here?"

"Marster done sent him dere arter de doctor.
Marster come a-rabin out to de quarter, just now,
like he gone rip stabin mad, an say how mist ess
wer took berry ill, an he hauled off daddy down
to de landin to start him off to Sinnigger s arter de
doctor. Is mist ess dat bad, sure nough?"

"Hum! Sent arter de doctor, eh? No use send
arter de doctor now. Set a house afire, an den
run for a gourd o water to put it out ! Hum ! Dat
a blind!" muttered Phia.

"Is mist ess so berry bad?" inquired the girl.

"So yer daddy s gone to Sinnigger s. Whey s
yer marster?"

"Marster done gone down to de boat landin to
hurry daddy off, I telled you before, mammy. But,
say, is mist ess bad as all dat conies to?" inquired
the girl for the third time.

"It ain t none o your business! You go right
straight down de kitchen and put on a kettle ob

GLORIA 63

water to heat," replied the woman, closing the door
on her daughter.

"Sent for de doctor ! Hum. Dat piece ob cep-
tion ain t a-gwine to do no good. Lord, Lord, did
I ebber expect to lib to see dis awful day? Dough
I hab offen an offen prophesied as how murder
would be done in dis forsak, unlawful house, did
I ebber expect as it would come to pass? He s done
it, an 7 he ll sure to be hung, an den what is to come
ob de place? O-o-m-me," groaned the woman, as
she returned to her post of duty.

At these dreadful words, the voice of the child,
that had sunk into low sobs, now arose in wails of
anguish.

The next moment the door was thrown open and
Marcellus de Crespigney hurried into the room,
haggard, ghastly, with distended eyeballs and dis
heveled hair. After rapidly glancing around the
room, his eyes fell upon the form lying on the
lounge, and he hurried up to it, breathing hard, as
he put the questions:

"How is she? How is she? Better?"

The appalled woman silently moved aside and
the child crouched down upon the floor and made
room for him.

He stooped anxiously over the rigid form, looked
deeply into the marble face and uttered a cry which
those that heard never forgot in all their after life.

Then dashing his hand violently against his fore
head, he flung himself down by the couch, and
dropped his head upon the cold breast of his wife,
wailing forth :

"Dead! Dead! Dead! And I have killed her!
I, a murderer, most accursed !"

He was totally unconscious of the sobbing child

64 GLORIA

at his feet, or the frowning woman who stood with
folded arms, like a black Nemesis, at his back. He
had eyes for neither for nothing but the lifeless
form before him.

Gazing on her, pressing his lips to her cold brow,
again and again, he broke into the most violent
lamentations, the most awful self-accusations.

Then hiding his head in the folds of her raiment,
he groaned aloud and seemed to swoon into silence.

Again, with an accession of frenzy, he started up
and began striding to and fro, from end to end of
the long room, uttering the most agonized self-re
proaches, and calling down the most horrible male
dictions upon his own head.

This terrible scene went on until at last the weep
ing child, her heart half broken with grief for her
who was beyond suffering, and for him who still
suffered, arose from her crouching position and
dried her tears and tried to still her sobs, and went
to the maddened man, as he raged up and down
the floor, invoking imprecations on his own head.

She came behind him, pleading in her pitiful
tones:

"Oh, uncle, do not curse yourself ! Pray ! The
Lord is merciful I" And she put her little hand out
to touch his.

Then he whirled around upon her like a furious
wind, his eyes flashing lightnings of frenzy, his
voice thundering:

"Avaunt ! Begone ! Let no innocent thing come
near me!"

The child turned and fled and buried her face in
the lap of Sophia, who was now seated by the dead
body of her mistress.

GLORIA 65

"Let me take you to bed, little Glo ," whispered
the woman.

"No no," sobbed the aggrieved and terrified
child. "No no. I want to stay near him! I I
want to stay near him!"

Three dreadful hours passed in this way, with
little change.

Sophia sat near the head of the lounge, keeping
constant watch over the corpse.

Little Gloria crouched on the floor at her feet,
with her head hidden in the old woman s lap.

Marcellus de Crespigney raged up and down the
floor, breathing maledictions upon himself, or he
dropped down before the dead body of his wife,
uttering awful groans or lapsing into more awful
silence.

An hour after midnight there came a sound of
footsteps, crunching through the frozen snow, and
followed by an alarm on the iron knocker at the
front door, which announced the arrival of Dr.
Prout, the physician of St. Inigoes.

De Crespigney, almost exhausted by the long con
tinued violence of his emotions, was now calm with
the calmness of prostration and despair.

"Nothing serious the matter, I hope!" said the
cordial voice of the doctor, as he entered the room,
ushered by Laban, and met by Colonel de Crespi
gney, who advanced to receive him.

The physician of St. Inigoes was a short, stout,
round-bodied little old man, with a bald head, a
smooth face, cheery voice and manner, He was al
ways dressed in speckless black from head to foot.

"Nothing serious, I hope? Only one of madame s
usual nervous attacks, eh?" he cheerfully de-

66 GLORIA

manded, as he shook hands with the master of the
house.

"It is her last attack, sir. She is dead," answered
De Crespigney, in steady tones.

"Dead? Lord bless my soul, I am I dead, do
you say?" exclaimed the doctor, in surprise and
confusion.

"Yes, sir, she is gone. Come and see."

"Lord bless my soul, I am very much shocked !"
exclaimed the good little man, as he followed the
bereaved husband to the lounge on which the body
of the ill-fated wife lay.

Old Thia lifted the white handkerchief that cov
ered the white face, arfd then withdrew to give way
to her master and the doctor, leading the trembling
child away with her.

"How did this happen ?" solemnly inquired the
doctor, as he gazed down on the waxen face, with
the stream of scarlet blood curdled from the corner
of the mouth down upon the chin and throat, where
it lay in a thick cake.

"Through me. I killed her," answered De Cres
pigney, in the same dread monotone in which all his
answers to the doctor s questions had been made.

Dr. Prout turned and gazed at him in amazement
for a moment, and then said gravely and kindly :

"My dear friend, this shock has been too much
for you. Compose yourself. This unhappy lady
has had a fatal hemorrhage of the lungs, such as I
feared for a long time past; such as I warned you
might be the result of any unusual excitement."

"Just so, you warned me, yet I killed her."

The doctor looked at him in a great trouble, then
replaced the handkerchief over the quiet face of the

GLORIA 67

dead, and taking his arm led him to a distant sofa,
placed him on it, took the seat beside him, and said :

"De Crespigney, you must not say such false
things about yourself. Think what the effect upon
other minds may be."

"They are not false; they are true. Listen to me,
Dr. Prout. You know you warned me that excite
ment might prove fatal to my unhappy wife."

"Yes."

"You know how prone she was to excitement.
You knew her delicate health and her extreme ner
vous irritability?"

"I knew the weakness of her lungs and the vio
lence of her temper. I knew all that, Colonel de
Crespigney, before you ever saw her face."

"Let that pass," said Marcel, waving his hand
impatiently. "You warned me against the danger
of excitement for her. I was not man enough to
heed your warning in her behalf. I have been
frenzied to-night, Dr. Prout. But attend! This
evening I irritated her, excited, taunted, maddened,
murdered her!"

"Oh, my dear Colonel. Oh, tut, tut, tut!"

"But hear me! I must tell some one. Oh, this
necessity of confession this afternoon a dispute
arose between us, indeed I know not how I should
have calmed, soothed, conciliated her, knowing how
dangerous was excitement to that poor, fragile
being! But I did not. When she accused me, I
recriminated; when she reproached me, I retorted.
One word brought on another/ as the people say.
She grew frantic and knew not what she said, I do
verily believe. Yet her words stung me to frenzy,
and, forgetting my manhood, I I "

Here Marcel de Crespigney s voice broke, and he

68 GLORIA

covered his brow with his hand and dropped his
head upon his breast with a look of unutterable
shame.

"You never could have raised your hand against
your wife, De Crespigney?" exclaimed the doctor,
in a harsh voice, and shrinking away from his com
panion.

Up went the fine head, and wide open with as
tonishment at such a question the splendid eyes, as
Marcel replied:

"Who I? I raise my hand against that poor
little, fragile being? I raise my hand against any
woman? I may be a devil, Dr. Prout, but I am not
a what would you call a man who would strike
a woman anyway? I am sure I don t know."

"Pardon me the base thought, De Crespigney. It
was but a passing thought Scarcely that indeed.
But what do you mean, then, by your self-accusa
tions, my poor friend?"

"I killed her all the same. If I did not strike
with my hand, I struck with the poisoned arrow
of the tongue. Is any serpent s sting so venomous
as the tongue? Her tongue had stung me to frenzy.
She accused me, poor, wrong-headed child that she
was, she accused me of marrying her for money, for
this miserable, sterile promontory, with its ruinous
house and worthless land. I retorted by telling her
I married her for pity. Yes!" cried Marcel, sud
denly starting up, and striding to and fro with ris
ing excitement, "yes, villain! caitiff! cur that I
was, I told my wife I told that delicate and sen
sitive creature that I had married her only for pity !
And worse, far worse than that, I saw her pale face
grow scarlet at my cruel, shameful words, then,
white as death, as she sank upon a chair and placed

GLORIA 69

her hand upon her chest. I did not care. The devil
had possession of me.

" You will kill me, she gasped.

" DiE, then, and end it all ! I answered, brutally,
for I half suspected she was acting all this illness.
But the next instant she fell heavily forward, with
the blood welling from her throat."

"Gracious Heaven !" murmured the doctor in a
low tone.

"I remembered what you had warned me to do in
case of such an emergency. I went and laid her
down on the rugs quietly, and then ran out and dis
patched a servant for you. In ten minutes I was
back again at her side, but she was gone."

"I came the very moment that I was summoned,
but the way was long," said the doctor.

"You could have done no good, as it turned out,
even if you had been in the house. The fault was
mine. I killed her ! I killed the poor little fragile
woman, whose only fault was to love me too well,
too jealously, too exactingly, too insanely!" ex
claimed De Crespigney, heaping up words as men
will do under any strong excitement. "Yes, I killed
my delicate, sensitive wife ! I killed her with cruel,
shameful, unmanly words. Oh, accursed VILLAIN !"
he cried, smiting his forehead with a violent blow,
as he strode up and down the room.

Dr. Prout went up to him, took his arm and drew
it within his own, and saying, with the authority of
a keeper over a madman :

"Come, De Crespigney, you must go with me. I
am going to take you off to bed and give you an
opiate. You, Laban, there! Lead the way to your
master s chamber."

Marcel, whose stormy fits of 0:110 lion had reduced

70 GLORIA

him to the weakness of infancy, submitted himself
to be led from the room, preceded by his servant,
Laban.

Then there was left in the apartment of death,
with the corpse, the old watcher, Sophia, and the
child, Gloria, who had sobbed herself to sleep with
her head on the black woman s lap.

A few minutes after the doctor had led De Cres-
pigney away, however, Lamia softly entered the
room and whispered:

"The hot water is ready, mammy."

"Yes. Well, now take this child and carry her
up to her room, and undress her without waking
her, if possible, and put her to bed. But if she
do wake, you stay with her till she goes to sleep
again, an then you come down here an help me.
You know what s happened of by dis time, don t
you?"

"Oh, yes; mist ess hab broken a blood-vessel, an
deed "

"Yes ! Lord forgive me ! I did fink by de way he
ran on, as marster had done it hisself ! I thanks
my Lord it wasn t him, and dere ll be no erow-
ner s quest, nor hanging! Dere, gal, take de poor
dear chile and carry her to bed. Well, poor
mist ess, I hopes de Lord will hab messy on her
soul ! Anyways, dere won t be no more quarrellin
an fightin an fendin an provin an spoundin
an splainin in de house to drive a body ravin ,
stracted mad. Marse ain t clined to quarrel much
hisself, an if he was, he couldn t quarrel by his
self dout some one else to help him," growled old
Phia, as she lifted the child and laid her, still sleep
ing, in the arms of Lamia.

The girl took the exhausted child up to her room,

GLORIA 71

undressed, and put her into bed without awakening
her.

Once, indeed, the poor little creature half waked
as she was finally laid on her pillow; but she only
sobbed and swooned away to sleep.

Lamia stood by the bed watching her for a few
minutes, and seeing that she was not likely to wake
for hours to come, left the chamber and went down
stairs to join her "mammy" in the room of death.

Together they washed and dressed the dead, and
laid it out neatly on the long table to await the
undertaker. Then Phia lighted a couple of wax
candles and placed one at the head and one at the
foot.

Lastly, the two set the room in perfect order, re
plenished the fire, and finally took up their posi
tions, sitting one on the right, and the other on the
left of the body, to watch until daylight.

Dr. Prout remained all night with his sorrowing
friend, and then, after an early breakfast the next
morning, departed to make, at the request of
Colonel de Crespigney, the necessary arrangements
for the funeral.

When Marcel de Crespigney re-entered the room
of death he found it filled with an atmosphere of
repose that calmed even his perturbed spirit. He
went to the table and turned down the white linen
cover, and saw the face of the dead soothed into a
peaceful beauty such as it had never known in life.
He gazed on it for some minutes, and then stooped
and pressed his lips to the cold, quiet brow with
more tenderness than he had ever kissed the living
woman. Then he reverently covered the face again,
and stole silently from the room.

Little Gloria slept the deep sleep of mental and

72 GLORIA

physical prostration. She did not wake until noon.
Then she awoke to memory, and to an agony of grief
that refused to be comforted.

"And not a lady about de house to look arter de
poor chile! Not eben a white oman anywhere in
reach. An me an Lamia dat oberloaded with work,
along ob dis dreadful business!" groaned Phia, as
she trotted from chamber to parlor, and from parlor
to kitchen on her multifarious duties.

Even in the midst of her lamentations she met
relief. In the kitchen she found David Lindsay and
his grandmother, just arrived, and waiting to see if
they could be of any use.

David, on coming to work that morning, had met
Dr. Prout and had anxiously inquired if any one
was sick at the "house," and in answer had received
the news of Madame de Crespigney s death.

Then remembering the limited resources of ser
vice in that small and isolated household, David,
with the thoughtfulness of a boy who had long had
a man s responsibilities on his own young shoulders,
re-entered his boat and rowed rapidly across to the
little sandy isle, to tell his grandmother, and even
to suggest her returning with him.

The gentle old dame saw even more clearly than
her grandson had done, the need they had of her
at Promontory Hall. So she lost no time in get
ting ready to go, and in less than half an hour from
the moment when she received the news, she stood
in Sophia s kitchen, earnestly offering her services.

"If you ll only look after de chile, which I b lieve
you is a great favorite long o her, dat is all as I
shall ax ob you," said Phia.

And so the sweet old dame "looked after" little
Gloria, and comforted her, night and day, during

GLORIA 73

the three days that preparations for the funeral
went on.

Meanwhile, David Lindsay made himself useful
in many ways at the Hall during the day, and at
night returned to the little isle to take care of the
house in the absence of its mistress.

Often Gloria tried to see and console her stricken
uncle ; but he always refused to have her, saying :

"Let all innocent beings keep aloof from me."

Thus, in alternations between the frenzy of re
morse and the stupor of despair, Marcel de Oes-
pigney passed the interval between the death and
burial of his "murdered wife," as, in his morbid
self-reproach, he called her.

"Words kill !" he answered to the expostulations
of his friend, the doctor. "Words kill, and I killed
her with cruel words! The last words I spoke to
her the last words her failing senses heard from
me were cruel, murderous words! They killed
her! What though no law can drag me before an
earthly tribunal to answer for her life? Before
the awful judgment seat of the God in my own soul,
I stand a self-convicted murderer!"

The good doctor shrugged his shoulders, reflect
ing that it was of no use to argue with a man whose
morbid sensibility made him, for the time being,
a monomaniac.

Marcel de Crespigney, who had so greatly dis
tinguished himself for martial courage and ability
during the Mexican war, was weaker than a child
where his sympathies were involved.

This weakness had betrayed him into all the
misery of his life. It had drawn him, in his early
youth, into a marriage with a plain, sickly, faded
.woman, who loved him with that morbid, exclusive,

74 GLORIA

absorbing passion that, disappointed, sometimes
sends its victim to the madhouse or the grave.

He had married her let the truth be here told
from the promptings of compassion alone. He had
given her all that he had to give sympathy, ten
derness, service. But this was not love not the
love she craved and missed. Hence came humilia
tion, morbid brooding, and the monomania that
turned all his kindly acts and motives into outrage
and offence.

Had children blessed their union, and so divided
her thoughts and affections, or had they the hus
band and wife though childless, lived in a city,
where society must have claimed some of her at
tention, and taught her something of life, she might
have been much healthier in mind and body, and
their marriage might have been happier.

But in the drear solitude of Promontory Hall,
with no children to fondle, no society but that of
the studious, intellectual man whom she vainly and
madly loved, there could have been but one of two
results for her madness or death. The most mer
ciful of the two was hers.

But it was also impossible that De Crespigney s
mind, under all these circumstances, should have
retained its healthy tone, or that his long patience
should not have at last become exhausted, so that
in one moment of unexampled exasperation he lost
the self control of years and told her the truth
the truth, not "in love," but in wrath and scorn,
that had slain her.

Now he would not seek to palliate his fault or
justify himself. He would not remember the
jealousy, the violence, the acrimony with which she
had driven him to frenzy ; he would only remember

GLORIA 75

her strong love for him and his secret indifference
to her, and his deeply sympathetic, compassionate
and conscientious spirit suffered pangs of remorse
that would seem to others morbid, excessive and
unjustifiable.

On the fifth day following the catastrophe, the
remains of Eusebie de Crespigney were placed in an
elegant rosewood casket and conveyed by boat to
the little Gothic chapel on La Compte s Landing,
where they were met by a small number of old
friends and neighbors, and where, after the re
ligious services were over, they were consigned to
the family vault under the chancel.

Immediately after the funeral, Marcel de Cres
pigney utterly broke down and fell ill of a brain
fever.

Dr. Prout, taking authority on himself in the
household anarchy, installed Mrs. Lindsay as nurse,
and wrote to his family.

CHAPTER VI

MISS GRIP

She is active, stirring, all fire,
Cannot rest, cannot tire.

BROWNING.

WITHIN ten days after the despatch of the doc
tor s letter it was answered in person by the
colonel s maiden aunt, who, after many misadven
tures, reached Promontory Hall in the afternoon of
a very bitter cold January day.

Miss Agrippina de Crespigney, called by her

76 GLORIA

familiars Miss Grip, was a slight, wiry little
woman, with a dark skin, sharp nose and chin,
small, keen, brilliant black eyes, tightly curled,
bright black hair, and a trim figure, clothed in a
close black cashmere gown, with stiff white linen
collar and cuffs a tough little body she was, whose
sixty years of life s hard buffeting had not seemed
to have saddened, weakened or in any other way
aged, but rather matured, hardened and strength
ened.

For now, in the very depth of one of the hardest
winters that ever was known here, she had under
taken an arduous journey of more than twelve hun
dred miles, from the green savannahs of the
"Sunny South" to the frozen regions of the icy
North, traveling without rest, both day and night,
by railroads, stage-coaches, and tavern hacks, and
at length arrived at her destination, none the worse
for her performance, without showing the slightest
sign of suffering from cold or from fatigue.

The last half -day of her hard week s journey had
been peculiarly trying. She had reached St. Inigoes
by stage-coach, early in the morning. After a hasty
breakfast she had started in the springless carryall
belonging to the inn, for the Promontory. When
she reached the shore she had to wait hours there
for the tide to ebb before she could cross over the
neck of land that connected the island cape to the
main.

Even then the passage was difficult and danger
ous from the piled up blocks of ice that lay across
the road.

"I really thought that I was coming to a habit
able part of the globe, at least; but this is Nova
Zembla! Just Nova Zembla and nothing else! A

GLORIA 77

waste fragment of a continent, flung out as useless
into an arctic sea !" said Miss Grip, as the old car
riage pitched and tumbled along the narrow ice-en
cumbered isthmus towards the snow-clad promon
tory.

"I hab lieern it called a many hard names. Miss,
but I nebber heered it called Dissemblance afore,"
replied the negro driver.

"Well, then, hold your tongue and mind your
horses, or you ll upset me," rather irrelevantly con
cluded Miss Grip.

When the rickety carryall drew up before the
old iron gate in the old stone wall that enclosed the
stern-looking gray-stone house, Miss Grip gave
voice once more.

"Is it a police-station, or a penitentiary, or a
warehouse, or a fort, or something of the sort?
This never was meant for a gentleman s private
residence."

But she did not even wait to cross the threshold
before she seized the reins of government. As soon
as she alighted from the carryall she began to issue
her orders to the driver.

"Take the carriage around to the stables of
course there are stables and you must find them
put up the carriage, feed and water the horses, then
come around to the kitchen. You must get your
supper before you go back. Stop! take my trunk
oft first and bring it up into the house."

The driver began to obey these orders as the brisk
little woman ran up the steps and sounded an alarm
on the iron knocker.

Laban opened the door, and the driver carried in
the trunk and put it down on the hall floor and de
parted about his other business.

78 GLORIA

"How is your master?" sharply demanded Miss
Grip of the astonished negro.

"Jes de same," replied the man, as if the answer
had been rapped out of him.

"How the same?"

"Onsensible."

Miss Grip immediately took off her bonnet and
shawl, and flung them on the hat-rack, saying :

"Show me the way up through this old jail to the
den where your master lies."

The man looked daggers at the insolent little
woman, but he obeyed her, and led the way to the
spacious upper chamber where the patient lay,
watched by old Mrs. Lindsay and patient little Glo .

Miss Agrippina nodded silently to the nurse, then
kissed the child and sent her out of the room, say
ing that a sick room was no wholesome place for a
little girl.

Now that Miss De Crespigney had come to take
her proper place at the bedside of her suffering
nephew, good Mrs. Lindsay found herself at liberty
to return home and look after her own little affairs.

The child wept at parting with her old friend,
and said :

"I know there is no work to do at the landing
while all this snow and ice is piled up everywhere;
but, oh, do please to send David Lindsay to see me
sometimes. I shall be so lonesome when you are
gone."

The gentle old dame promised to do so, and went
away to look for Laban to row her over to the little
isle.

This though a very short, was not always a very
safe trip, at this season of the year, when floating
blocks of ice endangered the little boat, and it was

GLORIA 79

only by watchfulness and skill that it was ever ac
complished safely.

From that hour Miss Grip administered the gov
ernment of Promontory Hall.

She was an accomplished nurse and housekeeper,
and not at all an unkindly woman, notwithstanding
her quick ways. She held a consultation with the
doctor on his next visit, and learned from him the
facts of the case, of which she would not inquire of
the servants or even permit them to speak.

"It was the most unhappy marriage I ever heard
of. But then I always knew Marcel would make a
mess of it," was her only comment on the story.

Then she devoted herself to her sick nephew, who,
in his delirium, was always holding imaginary con
versations with his lost wife, and sealing a recon
ciliation, such as in the past had always followed
one of their quarrels.

Even Miss Grip would sometimes smile and some
times weep to hear him say :

"I know it, my dear. I knew you did not mean
all that you said. I knew you were excited. Yes, I
know, for all that, you love me, Eusebie. There,
say no more about it, dear. Let us try to forget
it, 7 and so forth, for hours, until exhaustion and
stupor would follow.

It was a long illness. The February thaw had
come and melted the "iceberg," as Miss Grip called
the snow-clad promontory, before Marcel de Cres-
pigney passed the crisis of his fever, and then he
was so weak in mind as well as body that another
month passed away before he had gradually recov
ered strength enough to sit up in his easy-chair and
converse a little.

Next, when he was able to bear a sustained dis-

80 GLORIA

course, he gave Miss Grip his own version of the
fatal quarrel that had precipitated the catastrophe,
not sparing himself in the least, but heaping bitter
reproaches upon his own head, as he had done from
the first.

"Yet," said Miss Agrippina, "I cannot see that
you were so much to blame. But, in any case, it is
of no use to look back. All that you can do now is
to atone in the future for what you have done amiss
in the past. She has left you no child of her own ;
but she has left a little niece whom she loved. Be a
good father to that orphan."

"I will do so," answered De Crespigney, very
meekly.

"And now, Marcel, take my advice: Whatever
else you do, don t make a fool of yourself again by
getting married. Such a bookworm as you has no
business with a wife. So, don t be a foci."

"I will not," sighed the colonel, obediently.

When he grew stronger still he sent for the little
portable cabinet in which his lost wife was accus
tomed to keep her papers, and he had it placed upon
a stand between his easy-chair and the open wood
fire, and he went through her letters, with the in
tention of burning all of them, lest they should by
unforeseen accident fall into other hands.

And here he found what newly awoke his grief
and his remorse. It was her last will, duly drawn
up, signed, sealed, and witnessed, in which she be
queathed to him the whole of her real and personal
estate. Folded in with this document was a letter,
dated some time back, and addressed to her hus
band, to be opened after her death. It seemed to
have been written just after one of their fierce quar
rels and sorrowful reconciliations. In it she wrote :

GLORIA 81

"I feel that some day I shall die suddenly in some
one of my mad fits of excitement. I feel that when
that shall have happened without time for recon
ciliation, I shall want to speak to you from the
other life. I shall want to reach my hand across
the great gulf that will divide us and be reconciled
to you from the other life. But that may not be my
privilege, so I write to you now, and leave w r ith
you, for that time, what I feel that I shall want to
say to you then."

And here followed a most pathetic plea for a
charitable construction of her confessed infirmities
of temper and a prayer for the merciful remem
brance of her love. She said not one word about
the will she had made securing all her property to
him ; she was silent on that subject, as if she thought
it of little importance compared to the theme upon
which she wrote, her own morbid, maddened af
fections.

The letter so agitated the convalescent that he
suffered a relapse of several days duration.

As the spring advanced, however, he improved in
health, strength and spirits. The season was early
that year, so that by the middle of March every
vestige of ice and snow had disappeared, and by the
first of April the fields were green with grass and
the trees blossoming for fruit. And then Marcel de
Crespigney was able to sit out on the front porch
and enjoy the resurrection of nature with a new
sense of life.

Meanwhile the business on the fishing landing
was opening briskly, and, among other workmen,
David Lindsay found a plenty to do, patching boats
and mending nets and clearing beaches.

82 GLORIA

Again little Gloria went daily down to the old
sea wall and sat and read to her playmate while he
mended old seines or netted new ones. She read to
him the school histories of Rome, Greece and Eng
land, while the hungry mind of the boy swallowed
and assimilated them all.

Under the shadow of the old sea wall the life of
the children was an idyl in Arcadie until one un
happy day, when their innocent affection fell under
the notice of Miss Agrippina de Crespigney, and
shocked that lady s sense of propriety in the most
outrageous manner.

She was giving the poor old manor-house a fit of
the severest hydrophobic convulsions, which she
called a spring cleaning, turning every trunk, box,
wardrobe, closet and store-room inside out, and
raising dust that had rested undisturbed for ages,
when, thinking that she needed more help, she de
termined to walk down to the landing, where, she
was told, the fisher-boy was at work, and to send
him to fetch his grandmother to her assistance.
When she reached the old sea wall and stood in the
breach, this is what she saw before her :

A little fire kindled on the sands, and some fresh
fish laid on the coals to broil ; a little napkin spread
on a flat stone, with two litttle blue-edged plates
and green-feandled knives and forks, a bunch of
radishes, a bunch of onions, and two rolls of wheat
bread, and lastly, the two children sitting, side by
side, in the old boat, reading from the same book.

Miss Agrippina raised up both her hands in
speechless amazement. Then controlling herself,
she forbore all reproaches to the little, unconscious
offender, and only saying : "Gloria, my love, your

GLORIA 83

uncle wants you. Go right home," came calmly
down to the scene.

Quite innocent of any impropriety, the little girl
rose obediently, and saying :

"I am sorry, David Lindsay, that I cannot stay
and take dinner with you to-day; but poor uncle,
you know! I must go to him directly; you must
take the book along with you and read it at home
to-night," she ran lightly along, tripped over the
broken wall, and home.

Miss Agrippina turned to dispatch the boy on
his errand after his grandmother.

David promptly left his culinary preparations,
unmoored his boat, and rowed rapidly for the isle.

And so the children s little, innocent al fresco
feast was spoiled; but that was nothing to what
happened afterwards.

CHAPTER VII

CHANGES

All she did was but to wear out the day ;

Full oftentimes she leave of him did take;
And oft again devised somewhat to say,

Which she forgot, whereby excuse to make;

So loth was she his company to forsake.

SPENSER.

Miss AGRIPPINA DE CRESPIGNEY stood in the
breach of the old stone sea-wall, watching David
Lindsay as he rowed rapidly from the shore.

"This intimacy must be stopped at once," she

84 GLORIA

said; "that poor, neglected child must be looked
after and not allowed to associate with every rude
boor that she may happen to meet on this dreary
promontory! She must be sent to school. I will
speak to Colonel de Crespigney on the subject at
once."

So muttering, Miss Grip turned, clambered down
from her standpoint and walked rapidly towards
the house.

When she got there she found little Glo standing
between her uncle s knees, as he reclined in his
chip-bottomed arm-chair in the front porch.

"Why, how is this, Aunt Agrippina? This child
says you told her I sent for her. It was surely a
mistake. I never sent for her," said Colonel de
Crespigney, as soon as he saw Miss Grip.

"No one said you did. I told her you wanted her,
and so you do want her, or at least you ought to,"
grimly replied the lady.

"Why, what on earth do you mean. Miss de Cres
pigney?"

"You know very well what I mean, or you should
know," severely retorted Miss Grip.

"Upon my sacred word of honor, I don t! Pray
explain yourself," entreated the colonel.

Instead of replying to him, Miss Agrippina de
liberately divested herself of her bonnet and shawl
and gave them to the child, saying :

"Here, my dear, take these up into my room and
put them away carefully."

"Now, then, what do you mean?" demanded the
colonel, when the little girl had disappeared into
the house.

"I mean that you want your ward to stay at home

GLORIA 85

until she goes to school, which she must do very
soon," said Miss Grip, decidedly.

"Go to school? How can she? There is no school
fit for her within fifty miles of this place."

"Certainly not. She must be sent away to a first-
class boarding-school."

"I cannot consent to that, Aunt Agrippina. I can
not, and will not. I cannot part with her. Besides,
it would break her heart to send her away."

"Fiddle!" said Miss Grip.

"Yet I see that she should have instruction. I
will advertise for a first-class resident governess."

"You will not do any such thing. Colonel Mar-
cellus de Crespigney ! A resident governess in the
house, indeed! Why, she would marry you in six
months!"

"Absurd !" indignantly exclaimed the colonel.

"Oh, yes, you may call it absurd, if you like!
But I know you, Marcellus! Any needy woman,
any single woman, I mean, young or old, plain or
pretty, shut up in the same house with you, would
marry you out of hand !"

"You must think me a very weak man," said the
colonel.

"I do," said Miss Grip.

"Thank you," said De Crespigney, with an air of
chagrin.

"Weak where your sympathies are concerned,
Marcel, and that is no discredit to you, my dear
But I ll not have any wandering woman making her
market at your expense ! No, sir ! no resident gov
erness, if you please !"

"I hope, Aunt Agrippina, you will permit me to
be master of my own house, so far as to say who
shall or shall not make a part of my family."

86 GLORIA

"Oh, by all means, and take the consequences, too,
for if you engage a resident governess, I shall leave
the house. And after I go what respectable woman,
do you suppose, would come and live here with a
young widower, and no lady of his family to keep
her in countenance? Ah, ha ! I have you there, Mar
cel ! Yes, and I mean to keep you there !"

"It is rather unkind of you, Aunt Agrippina; but
I shall not argue the point, since I know from ex
perience that nothing ever turned you from any
resolution that you had formed. Still, I say, it is
very unkind of you," said the colonel, with a
wounded air.

"It is for your own good, honey. If I were to stay
here and let a resident governess come, she would
make you the captive of her bow and spear, and
marry you right under my very nose! It will not
do, Marcel. The child must be sent to school."

"But she is so young yet. Not nine years old un
til June. You or I can direct her studies for the
next year or two."

"I don t see it. Besides, who is to look after her
out of school hours? I tell you, Marcel, it is not
only for her education that she is to be sent from
home."

"For what other reason, I pray you?"

"To keep her out of bad company."

" Bad company? 7 Bad company, in this remote,
isolated place?" exclaimed the colonel, gazing at
the lady in surprise.

"Yes! bad company, I say! the very worst com
pany ! I think it is a shame, a burning and a crying
shame," exclaimed Miss Grip, firing up at the sound
of her own words "a burning and a crying shame
that she, Maria da Gloria de la Vera, a Countess of

GLORIA 8T

Portugal by birth, should be left here to run wild
like any little savage, with no better companion
than a low-born, ignorant fisher-boy! There!"

"Lord bless my soul alive!" cried the col
onel, sarcastically.

"Where do you suppose I found them?" sharply
demanded Miss Grip, whose temper was rising.

"Found whom?" coolly inquired the colonel.

"Your niece and ward, the Countess Maria, and
your hired servant, David, the fisher-boy."

"I wish you would not be ridiculous, my dear
aunt. What good does that title do our poor little
girl, here in democratic America? Why, even her
father, a Portuguese nobleman by birth, but a
staunch republican in principle, dropped his title
when he transferred his interests to the United
States," said Marcel.

"Then he had no right to do it, and his act is of
no consequence to his daughter. She is the Countess
de la Vera, and she would be recognized as such in
any other civilized country except in democratic
America, as you call it. But that is not the point."

"What is the point, then?"

"I asked you just now, where you supposed I
found them?"

"In a boat, on the water?"

"No; sitting on an old, overturned boat under the
broken sea-wall, side by side, with an open book be
fore them, both their hands on the covers, both
faces bent over the same page."

"God bless the child! She was trying to teach
the lad !" ejaculated Marcel, with a smile of sympa
thetic pleasure in his eyes.

"I say it is most improper! most indecorous!
most objectionable! for the little Countess Maria

S8 GLORIA

to be sitting down on an old boat side by side with
a low, vulgar, ill-bred fisher-boy!" exclaimed Miss
Grip.

"Stop, stop, my dear lady ! You go too far, in
deed ! David Lindsay is a poor fisher lad, certainly ;
but he is not, in any sense of the words, low, vulgar,
or ill-bred."

"Now, how can he be anything else?"

"By intuition. He has the intuitions of a little
gentleman."

"And now, since you talk like that, I am more
determined than ever that the child shall go to
school," said Miss Grip.

"It is of no earthly use for you to persist in say
ing so, Aunt Agrippina. I cannot part with little
Glo ? . She is the sunshine of my home the light of
my life! Besides, she loves me so that she could
not bear to leave me. The separation would grieve
her to death."

"Fiddle!" scornfully repeated Miss Grip.

The reappearance of little Glo interrupted the
conversation, and the subject was dropped for the
time being.

There is an Indian song which teaches a good
lesson in perseverance:

"If a man talk a very long time,
If a man talk a very long time,
If a man talk a very long time,
He will bore a hole through a rock."

And if a woman so talk, the effect is surer as well
as swifter.

At the very first opportunity Miss Agrippina de

GLORIA 89

Oespigney resumed the subject of sending her
niece to school, and she talked a "very long time. 7

Again and again she returned to the theme, and
longer and longer she talked. She would listen to
no proposal of home teaching. She would come to
no compromise whatever. She would send the lit
tle "countess" to a first-class French and English
Ladies 7 Academy.

But it was not until late in the summer that
Colonel de Crespigney, worn out with importunity
and convinced, though against his will, by argu
ment, reluctantly consented to the plan.

Miss Agrippina acted promptly ori his decision,
lest it should be repented of and withdrawn.

"This is Friday, the lith of August," she said.
"I will myself leave here with the child on Monday,
the 17th. We will go to Baltimore and stop at some
good family boarding-house. Then I will go to the
Academy of the Sacred Heart, and make an engage
ment to enter her on the reopening of the school
exercises on the first of September, get a list of the
articles required for her school uniform and outfit,
have them purchased and made up in the interval,
enter my little lady on the opening day, and come
home. All this will take me about a fortnight, I
suppose," said Miss Grip.

And the same day she packed up a few changes
of clothes for herself and her niece, and then com
municated to the child that she was to go to school
on the following Monday.

Her words conveyed but a tithe of the truth to
the inexperienced little girl, who forthwith went to
her "dee-ar Marcel" for further information.

She found him in his favorite seat the old chip-
bottomed arm-chair, on the front porch.

90 GLORIA

"Am I really going away from you to school,
uncle dee-ar?" she inquired, seating herself on his
knees and putting her arms around his neck.

"Yes, my darling. You are a little lady, and must
be educated, cultivated, refined, accomplished. And
so you must go to school," replied "Marcel," laying
her tender cheek against his hirsute face.

"But I don t want to be all that, uncle. I want
to stay with you always, and play with David
Lindsay."

Marcel caressed her tenderly, and explained
gently the absolute necessity of her submission to
the social law that required her to be educated.

"Won t you be lonesome without your little Glo ,
Marcel, dee-ar!"

"Very lonesome indeed, my child."

"And won t you be very sorry? - she asked,
smoothing his hair with her small hand.

"No, not very sorry, darling. I shall be glad be
cause it will be for your good," said De Crespigney,
trying to look as if he meant what he said.

"You have got Aunty Agrippina and your books
and your music to keep you company. But David
Lindsay! Oh, Marcel, David Lindsay!" said the
child, as the tears filled her eyes.

"What of him, my pet?" asked the colonel very
gravely.

"Oh, he has got nobody but me, and no music
nor books but what I bring him. Oh, poor David
Lindsay! What will he do?" sighed Glo>.

"He will do very well, my dear. He will i)e busy
with his fishing."

"But he can t be always fishing! And he will
have nobody to play with, or to read with, or to
bring him books, or oh, dear! what shall we do?

GLORIA 91

Oh, I can t go to school, Marcel! I can t! How
can I go and leave you and David Lindsay?" broke
forth the child, in a wail of distress.

"I and David Lindsay must try and console each
other, in our little lady s absence, with the thought
that it is all for her good that she has gone. We
shall do very well," said the colonel, more gravely
and tenderly than he had yet spoken.

"Oh, will you? Will you? Will you comfort
David Lindsay? Will you lend him some books?
Oh, he is so hungry for books, uncle dee-ar. I am
going to give him all mine before I go away; but
mine are only a few, and he will soon read them
all. Will you lend him some? Will you, Marcel,
dee-ar?"

"Yes, darling, I will indeed. I will, my precious.
I will charge myself with the welfare of your little
friend, and he shall not want books, nor advice,
nor anything that he may require, if he wishes to
cultivate his mind," said Marcel de Crespigney, who
was absolutely without any prejudices of rank.

"And oh! will you love David Lindsay, and let
him love you, like I do?"

"Like you do? What do you mean, my child?"

"Like I love you ! Will you love him and let him
love you, like I love you?" she pleaded, laying her
soft cheek against his face a frequent caress of
hers.

He kissed her for all reply.

It was too late that Friday evening to see her
playmate. She had been reading with him all that
afternoon, and had taken leave of him before she
knew that she was to go to school. Now she felt
sure that he had gone home, and she should not

92 GLORIA

have a chance to see him and tell him until the next
day.

Still, she was thinking more of her playmate than
of any one else, simply because he had more need
of her than any one else. So she went up to her
little book-case and took down all her books and
packed them in a trunk that would hold about
twenty-five or thirty miscellaneous volumes, com
prising nearly all of Peter Parley s and other
juvenile works, that were held in great favor at that
time. With these she put in two slates, a dozen
graded copy-books, pens, pencils, india-rubber, blot
ting-papers, inkstand, and every requisite of the
school-desk that she could find.

Then she locked it and called up old Laban, and
said to him :

"I want you to shoulder this and take it down
to the boat-house for me."

The old servant looked at the trunk and looked
at the child, scratched his head, and declared:

"I don t know what you mean, Miss Glo ."

The little creature was not disposed to take airs
on herself; so she kindly explained to the old man
what she intended to do with the trunk, adding
truthfully :

"I told Uncle Marcel, and he did not object."

Old Laban then shouldered the trunk and fol
lowed his little mistress down the stairs, out of the
front door, and so down to the end of the promon
tory, through the breach in the old sea-wall, and
finally to a dilapidated little boat-house, where she
directed him to place it.

"It will be safe there until the morning and then
I can give it to David Lindsay, and he can carry it
away in his boat."

GLORIA 93

The sun had set half an hour before, and it was
growing dark, so little Glo and her sable com
panion hurried from the shore back to the house.

"Saturday and Sunday! I have only got two
days to be with Uncle Marcel and David Lindsay,"
said little Glo ? to herself when she awoke the next
morning.

And to make the most of her time, she hurried
out of bed, dressed herself quickly, and ran down
stairs.

Her aunt and uncle had not yet appeared, so she
said to the cook :

"Just give me a cup of milk and a biscuit, Phia,
and I will eat my breakfast and go. It is my last
day but one at home, and I must make the most
of it."

The old woman complied with her request, and
the little girl quickly dispatched her meal, snatched
her straw hat from the rack in the hall, and ran
out of the house and down to the beach.

She stood in the breach of the broken wall and
looked all around for her playmate, but did not
see him, and she thought she was going to be dis
appointed ; but just then she heard the sound of a
hammer, and knew it must come from one held in
his hand, for there was no one else who worked on
the beach.

She ran down and found him nailing loose boards
on the old boat-house.

"Oh ! David Lindsay," she exclaimed, as soon as
she saw him, "I have got something to tell you!
What do you think it is? Oh, you would never
guess ! I am going away on Monday !"

"Oh! NO!" cried the boy, while a look of blank
consternation came over his face.

9i GLORIA

"Indeed, I am ! I don t want to go ; but they say
I must, David Lindsay."

"Oh! where are you going?" he asked, in a great
trouble, that he never dreamed of trying to hide.

"To a boarding-school in Baltimore. Oh ! I don t
want to go, David Lindsay ! But they say I must !"
cried the child, almost in tears again.

The lad sighed, looked thoughtful, and then said :

"Yes ; I know. Even grandmother has said often :
Why don t they send that little lady to school?
She ought to be at school. So I suppose you must
go, sure enough, and it is all right; but it is very
har hard !" said the boy, valiantly trying to sup
press a sob, and succeeding in doing so.

"Yes, it is hard; but Uncle Marcel says that he
and you must console each other; and he says he
will lend you books and give you advice, and help
you, if you wish, to improve your mind, David Lind
say. And here, come in here, and see what I have
got for you ! I told uncle I was going to give them
to you, and he did not object. And old Laban
brought them down here for me yesterday. Come
and see," she said, as she led the way into the old
boat-house and pointed to the trunk.

"Oh!" exclaimed the boy. "Books?"

"Yes! Drag the trunk out into the light where
I can show it to you, David Lindsay."

The boy obeyed.

The girl then unlocked the trunk and gleefully
displayed its contents, looking up into the boy s
face with eyes dancing with the delight of delight
ing. Indeed, his eyes, radiant with rapture, re
sponded fully.

"Oh! oh! what heaps of books and things!" he
cried.

GLORIA 95

"They are all, all yours, David Lindsay !"

"Oh. ! oh ! how generous you are ! And oh ! how
happy you must be !" he exclaimed, fairly catching
his breath in ecstasy.

"Indeed I am very, very happy, David Lindsay !"
she cried.

And so she was at that moment, while looking on
her playmate s happiness, and forgetting that she
had to leave him soon and go away from home.

And then both went to work and tumbled out all
the slates, pencils, and pens, all the "Peter Par
leys/ and other attractive school books.

Finally, at the bottom of the trunk, lay two
thick volumes, which little Glo with some difficulty
lifted out and took upon her lap, and playfully hid
with her handkerchief, saying:

"And now, David Lindsay, here are two precious,
precious treasures, too precious to be read very
often !"

"What is it?" said the boy "the Holy Bible in
two volumes?"

"No," answered the girl, gravely and sweetly.
"The Word of the Lord is the Book of books, and
not to be talked of with others."

"Well, then, is it the Lives of the Saints?"

"No," she answered, smiling ; "but you can never
guess. This one in blue and gold is the Arabian
Nights Entertainment, and this one in crimson,
with the painted picture on the cover, is Fairy
Tales. Oh ! they are just splendid, David Lindsay !
I love them, and so will you ; but you ought not to
read them until you have done all your work and
lessons for the day. Mamma never let me have the
story-books until I had done my lessons," said the
little girl, solemnly.

96 GLORIA

Meanwhile David was looking at the new books.

"I I like these a heap better than I do the
school ones," he said, as he turned over the pages.

"Oh, to be sure! So do I. But they are only
holiday books, you know."

"Yes, these are only holidays, and these are work
ing hours/ said the boy, with a sigh and a smile,
as he began to replace the volumes in the bottom
of the trunk.

"I will put them all back again, if you want to
go to work, David Lindsay," she said, as she joined
him in the task that soon, at her word, he left her
to complete. Then the sound of his hammer kept
time to her hands as they quickly stowed away the
treasures in the trunk.

Presently the boy stopped hammering and came
to speak to her again.

"You are so good to me. You do so much for me,
and I do not do any for you. I have not found out
what to do for you ! Oh, could you tell me what I
could do for you?"

She opened her blue eyes wide with astonish
ment pure and simple.

"Why, why, you are always doing ever so much
to please me !" she said.

"Now what? Do just tell me what?" he asked.

She paused in thought so long that he asked
again, earnestly:

"What do I do to please you?"

"Oh, I don t know just what in particular, but
you do everything every day, all the time! Why,
David Lindsay, if you was to go to heaven and
leave me behind, I should just cry my eyes out!
Yes, I should just sit down on the old boat here
and cry my eyes out!" And moved by the picture

GLORIA 97

her imagination had drawn, she might have given
him a practical illustration, if he had not quickly
responded :

"But I am not going to heaven to leave you be
hind ! All we Lindsay fishermen live to be old men
of eighty or ninety, if we don t get drowned, you
know! Though indeed, for the matter of that, we
mostly do get drowned," he added, in a lower tone.

But she heard him, and quickly cried :

"Oh ! Don t you go and get drowned, please don t,
David Lindsay!"

"Indeed, I don t mean to!" said the boy, as he
went back to his hammering.

At that moment the colored girl, Lamia, appeared
in the breach of the wall, calling for Miss Gloria.

The child stood up, and answered :

"Here I am. Who wants me?"

"Your aunt! Leastways, your uncle s aunt
Miss Aggravatin Discrepancy," said Lamia.

(That was what the negroes, with their usual
blundering manner, made out of the lady s classic
and elegant maiden name.)

"What does my aunt want with me, Lamia?"
inquired the child, with a troubled look.

"To try on yer travelin dress, which me an Miss
Aggravatin has been a rippin up of one of her own
old allypackers to make over for you, an ? a cuttin
an a bastin of it all de whole mornin . Come
along, chile, cause it s got to be finished to-night,
ef we sets up workin on it till to-morrow mornin ."

"I must go, David Lindsay. I must go. But I
will come back as soon as ever I can get away.
And oh, won t you please try to get through your
work so as to take time to row me over to Sandy
Hill to take leave of dee-ar Granny Lindsay? Oh,

98 GLORIA

indeed I must go and take leave of dee-ar Granny
Lindsay!" said little Glo , looking earnestly in the
face of her playmate.

"I will work fast and get through all I have to
do. I won t stop for dinner, but will work through
the noon hour, and then I can get done by four
o clock and be ready for you," replied the boy.

Little Glo ran home so as to get through the "try
ing on" as soon as possible.

She found her aunt too busy to question her as
to where she had been.

Miss Agrippina did not detain her long, but as
soon as the waist of the dress was fitted, and the
length of the sleeves and skirt measured, she dis
missed the child.

Full of a new idea, little Glo ran to seek her
uncle.

She found Colonel de Crespigney in the library,
seated before the old organ, drawing weird music
from its worn-out keys.

"Marcel, dee-ar, I have only got a day and a half
now ! Won t you please let David Lindsay off from
his w r ork, so he can take me in the row-boat over
to bid good-by to Granny Lindsay? Oh, I must say
good-by to dee-ar Granny Lindsay before I go," she
pleaded, laying her tender cheek against his face.

"Yes, love," answered the gentle young uncle.
"Yes, you shall have your little will while you stay
here. Go and tell the lad to leave off work at once
and row you over to the island."

She kissed him in warm gratitude and sped away
to the landing, where she found her playmate still
at work.

She told him her joyful news, exclaiming glee
fully:

GLORIA 99

"We shall have a whole half-day holiday, for it is
only just twelve o clock, David Lindsay ! We shall
have, oh, such a happy, happy half day !"

The boy quickly stopped his work and got his
boat ready.

Then the children lifted the trunk of books be
tween them and placed it in the skiff. Lastly they
entered and seated themselves, and David took up
the oars and rowed for the isle.

They found the old dame busily engaged in pre
paring her frugal early dinner of tea and bread and
butter, with fried fish, boiled eggs, and peaches and
milk.

She gave the little lady a warm welcome and
divested her of her hat and mantle. And while
Gloria explained that her uncle had given David
Lindsay a half holiday, the dame added two more
cups and saucers and teaspoons and two more plates
and pairs of knives and forks to the table and put
a few more eggs on to boil.

"I am going to school on Monday, Granny Lind
say, and I have come to take leave of you," said
little Glo , when she took the seat that David had
placed for her.

"Have ee, darling? I m glad to see ee, and main
glad to hear ee s going to school," cordially replied
the dame.

"I don t want to go, Granny Lindsay! I don t
want to leave you all," sighed the child.

"But ee ought to, darling. Ee s a little lady,
and ee ought to be trained up as such."

"But I don t want to be, Granny Lindsay! I
want to stay home with dee-ar Marcel and you and
David Lindsay!" sadly persisted the child.

100 GLORIA

i " ? Eee must subject eeself to ? ee pastors and
masters, little lady. They do all for ? ee own good."

"Aunt Agrippina says that I am a countess,
Granny Lindsay ; but I know I am not. I am worse
at counting than at anything else. I never could
learn the multiplication table," said the child, with
a look of perplexity and vexation.

"So much the more reason for ? ee to go to school,
my little lady! Now sit ? ee up to table and have
some dinner."

Little Glo soon forgot her trouble in the society
of Granny Lindsay and David.

She passed a "happy, happy half day," then, with
many kisses, took a loving leave of her old friend,
and returned home in charge of the fisher lad.

It was sunset when they landed on the promon
tory beach.

"To-morrow is Sunday. Uncle and aunt and I
will go to church at La Compte s Landing. But
after church we shall come directly home. Will
you come in the afternoon to bid me a last good-by
before I go? You know we are to start before day
on Monday, so as to catch the St. Inigoes stage
coach," said little Glo , as she was about to take
leave of her friend.

"Yes, indeed. I am going to church at St.
Inigoes, but I will go to early mass, so as to be back
in time to come here in the afternoon," replied the
boy.

"So do! Good-night, David Lindsay!"

"Good-night!"

"God bless you, David Lindsay !"

"And you, too!"

She sped away towards the house, not singing

GLORIA 101

and dancing as had been her custom. Her little
loving heart was too heavy with the thought of part
ing with her friends.

The next day she went with her uncle and aunt to
morning service at La Compte s Landing, returned
with them to a early dinner, and then went down
to the beach to bid a last good-by to her friend and
playmate.

He was waiting for her with a box of fine shells
in his hand.

"These are some that grandfather brought home
from the Indian Ocean. Granny has kept them for
a long time; but she wants you to have them now,"
he said, rising and offering the box.

"Oh, how beautiful !" she exclaimed, sitting down
with the box on her lap, and beginning to examine
them. "So many different colors ! so many different
shapes and sizes! Not two alike!"

"People can make pretty boxes and vases out of
them, granny says. Make the boxes and things out
of pasteboard, you know, and stick the shells on
them with glue," said the boy, as he stood looking
down on her, pleased that she was pleased with his
humble offering.

"Oh, but I think it would spoil the pretty shells
to fix them on to anything ! I like them to be free,
so I can pour them from one hand to the other, and
turn them over ! Oh, David Lindsay, I am so glad
to have them! And so glad you gave them to me,,
too !"

"Granny gave them to me to give to you."

"Well, it is all the same, David Lindsay. And I
will take the pretty little things to school with me,
and look at them every day, and keep them forever

10$ GLORIA

and ever. Sit down by me and let us look at the
little beauties together. You know that this is our
last day."

The boy obeyed her.

She said it was their "last day ;" and that day was
drawing rapidly to a close. The children knew that
they were going to part, but they scarcely knew yet
what the parting was to be to them; they had had
no experience in separation; and both wondered a
little in secret why they felt no more pain at the
immediate prospect of losing each other.

When the sun set, which was always the signal
for their daily good-night, little Gloria shut up her
box of shells and arose, saying :

"I must go now. Good-by, David Lindsay."

"Good-by."

"God bless you, David Lindsay!"

"And you too!"

Now, according to custom, she should have run
home; but she lingered, loth to leave the spot.

"You know we are going to start long before day
light to-morrow morning," she said.

"I know it!" he gasped with a great sob.

"Oh! David Lindsay, don t cry!" she wailed,
with the tears rushing to her eyes.

"I m not crying. It s a lump in my throat," said
the poor boy.

"Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! What shall I do? I don t
want to go to school ! I don t want to be a lady ! I
don t ! I don t ! And poor Marcel don t want me to
go, neither!" wept the child.

"And no more do I!" cried the boy, struggling
with the "lump in his throat."

"Don t cry, David Lindsay. Oh! please don t
cry!"

GLORIA 103

"I m not crying a bit ! But I don t want you to
go away," sobbed the lad.

"Nobody does, but Aunt Grip. It is all Aunt
Grip! Oh! I wish she had never come near the
place ! We were all so happy until she came ! And
she says it is all for my own good. And I think
that is too bad!"

Little Glo s last words awoke the better spirit of
the boy.

He sobbed and sighed, and then set himself to
comfort the little lady.

"She means it for your good. Even granny says
you ought to go to school. And so I know it must
be all right for you to go. And you will come back
again, and be able to tell me lots of things."

"Oh, yes, indeed; I will come back for the
Christmas holidays, you know. And oh! David
Lindsay, every time I write to dee-ar Marcel I will
send a message to you. And will you send one back
to me, too?"

"If the master will let me."

"Why, of course he will let you ! Dee-ar Marcel
is too tender-hearted to refuse. Let me tell you
something. Aunt Grip, ever since she has been
here, has been trying to prevent me from coming
out here and playing with you, and if it had not
been for dee-ar Marcel, she would have prevented
me; but Marcel would not let me be grieved that
much."

The twilight was fading so fast that the child
looked up to the sky in alarm, exclaiming:

"Oh! I must go! I must go! Good-by, dee-ar
David Lindsay!"

104 GLORIA

"I must walk with you up to the house. It is too
dark for you to go by yourself," said the boy, ris
ing to accompany her.

He helped her over the rough stones of the
broken sea wall, and then walked with her until
they reached the porch and found Colonel de Cres-
pigney and Miss Agrippina sitting out there to en
joy the delicious coolness of the August evening.

Then the boy paused and lifted his torn straw
hat, and said :

"Good-night."

"Good-night. God bless you, dee-ar David Lind
say."

"And you too !"

So the children parted, to meet no more for years
to come.

That night David Lindsay, being a boy, and
therefore ashamed of his tears, cried "all alone by
himself in the little loft of his island cot.

That night, little Glo , being a girl, sobbed her
self to sleep on the sympathetic bosom of her
"dee-ar Marcel."

Long before light the next morning she took tear
ful leave of her uncle and her humble colored
friends, and started in the custody of Miss Grip for
the distant city where she was to spend her school
days.

Before the end of the month she was duly entered
as a resident pupil in the Academy of the Sacred
Heart Convent. And Miss Agrippina de Crespi-
gney returned to Promontory Hall to keep house for
her nephew, well satisfied.

GLORIA 105

CHAPTER VIII

AFTER SEVEN YEARS

Out of the convent came the maid.

ROBERT BROWNING.

WE have lingered so long over the lovely child
hood of little Glo that we have no time to give to
her school-days.

In entering her at the "Sacret Heart," Miss
Agrippina had enrolled her as the "Countess Maria
da Gloria de la Vera," and had provided her with
as rich and costly an outfit as the rigid rules of
the academy would permit. She had also fur
nished her with a plenty of pocket-money.

All this had given the simple-hearted, humble-
minded little Glo a grand rank among her untitled
and less wealthy school-mates, who did all they
possibly could do to transform her from a meek
and lovely child to a proud and supercilious young
lady.

Poor David Lindsay did not realize the loss of
little Glo until she had really gone. Then he "sor
rowed without hope." It is true that he believed
she would return at Christmas; but that was four
long months off.

From the fourth day of her departure he began
to watch for the return of old Laban from his
Tuesday s and Friday s trips to St. Inigoes ? Post-
office, and on his appearance would call out:

"Any letters, Uncle Laban?"

The answers were always:

106 GLORIA

"Yes."

Then, after the decent delay of an hour, the poor
boy would go up to the house and bashfully ask
for the colonel, and when admitted to his presence
stand respectfully, cap in hand, and inquire:

"If you please, sir, have you heard from "

"Miss de la Vera?"

"Yes, sir, please."

"I have. She is well, and sends her kind remem
brance to you," would Colonel de Crespigney reply.

(Now this was not at all what little Glo sent.
She sent her "love to dear David Lindsay." But
Colonel de Crespigney exercised the guardian s pru
dence and privilege in translating the message sent
through him.)

On hearing this, the boy would twist his little
torn hat in his hand and say, timidly, hesitatingly :

"If you please, sir, when you write would you
please to say I thank her very much for thinking
of me, and I send her my "

"Respects."

"Yes, sir, please." (Now this was not at all what
the poor boy meant to say; for he really wished to
send his "best love to her.")

The parted children had no true interpreter, so
no wonder a gulf opened and widened between
them. But Marcel meant well ; and David Lindsay
was destined to have his turn, when, driven by the
very outrage and stress of fate, the lovely heiress
should lay her hand and fortune at the feet of the
poor fisherman and implore him to take them up.

She did not come home for the happy Christmas
holidays. Miss Agrippina represented to her
brother that to bring the "Countess Maria" back

GLORIA 107

to the promontory would be to have all the trouble
of parting to go through again; that therefore she
had best be left to spend her holidays at the school
where she was receiving her education.

The gentle colonel, through indolence and good
nature, had fallen more and more under the
dominion of his maiden aunt, and therefore con
sented to all her plans.

So little Glo did not come home for her Christ
mas holidays. But her young uncle, who had not
ceased to mourn in secret the absence of his pet,
aroused himself from his lethargy, and went to the
city, and took his niece from her prison, and spent
the Christmas holidays with her at a fashionable
hotel, taking her every evening to some place of re
fined amusement, and so devoting himself to her
pleasure that the little rustic had reason to believe
that, after all said, the city was the true Arcadia,
and life, as "dee-ar Marcel" made it for her, a
lovely fairy tale.

But in all the delights of her new vista of life,
she did not yet forget her childhood s playmate,
and amid her many questions about "them all at
home," she did not fail to inquire about "dee-ar
David Lindsay."

Her guardian replied that the boy was well and
doing well, but had not come to borrow any books
yet, and, perhaps, was not so much interested in
improving his mind as she had supposed. Boys of
his class were not likely to be so.

"But, Marcel, you must interest yourself in him,
and not let his interest in his books flag. That was
not what I expected of you, Marcel !" said his little
monitress, reproachfully.

108 GLORIA

"I will do better when I return, my darling," re
plied her penitent.

"Mind you do, Marcel! He has no father, no
guardian even, and who will look after my David
Lindsay now I am away, if you do not?"

On the Monday after Twelfth Day he replaced
the little student in her school and returned to his
own dreary home and musty books.

He corresponded with her regularly through the
winter and spring and the early summer ; and noted
the great improvement she was making.

There was one thing, however, that very much
annoyed him in her letters. She always sent her
"love to dear David Lindsay." But he took care to
translate this into "kind remembrance," and to
send back David s "respects." So the gulf widened
and widened between the hearts of the children.

But David s time was yet to come.

Then, on the first of July, when the midsummer
holidays were about to commence, he went to the
city again, took his child out from her prison and
carried her off to the Greenbriar White Sulphur
Springs to give her a glimpse of the glorious moun
tain scenery, and an insight into the great world
of society. Here the handsome young widower, the
heroic young officer, with the laurels won in
Mexico yet green in the memories of all, might
have become the hero of the season; but nothing
could win him away from his "child." He rode
and drove with her through the wild and beautiful
forest and mountain scenery. He read with her,
sang duets with her, played ten-pins with her, and
generally "made a fool of himself about her," as
more than one aggravated matron with marriage-

GLORIA 109

able daughters declared. In September he took his
child back to her school just a year older, and sev
eral years more experienced than she had been
when she first entered the institution.

And now he had reason to congratulate himself
on one thing. His ward s interest in the poor
fisher-boy was evidently dying out, as he had first
said it would. It was well enough that they should
have played together as little children, and he had
not therefore interfered to prevent them. He was
too tender-hearted indeed to have given them so
much pain. But now, at last, it was all ended, as
it should be.

The first year was a type of all that followed
while she remained at the "Sacred Heart." Every
Christmas her young uncle would go and take her
from the school and spend the holidays with her at
a hotel, taking her to places of amusement suitable
to her age; and at the end of the holidays replac
ing her at school and returning to his own home.

Every June he would go and take her for the
midsummer vacation, and travel with her to some
delightful summer resort among the mountains, or
on the lake shores, returning her to her convent
early in September, and then repairing to his own
estate.

Sometimes his mother would write and ask him
to bring his young ward and join her circle at New
port, or Niagara, or wherever they might have de
cided to spend their summer season.

But Colonel de Crespigney always found some
good excuse for politely declining the invitation.

The very truth was that Marcel preferred to have
his little Glo all to himself during these long mid
summer vacations.

110 GLORIA

Her vivid and deep delight in all the sublime and
beautiful in nature and in art, rekindled his own
smouldering enthusiasm and revived his fading
youth.

Thus, through her, he enjoyed life anew. Now
his time was divided like the Arctic year into long
darkness and long light. The time spent in his
gloomy "penitentiary" on the promontory, was his
Arctic night; the time passed in wandering and
sight-seeing with his brilliant and ardent little
traveling companion, was his Arctic day.

David Lindsay, chilled by the cold "remem
brances," that grew cold only in the refrigerator
of MarcePs translations, gradually ceased to in
quire after Miss de la Vera, or send his "respects"
to her.

And so the great gulf between the young souls
seemed impassable, until one desperate leap in the
dark cleared it.

Meanwhile the years rolled rapidly onward; his
child was growing up, and he himself was growing
middle-aged.

The last time he took her out to spend her mid
summer vacation in traveling with him through a
succession of beautiful summer resorts, he was
thirty-five years old, with perhaps a dozen silver
threads scattered over his fine head, but glistening
with terrible conspicuousness amid the jetty black
ness of his hair. She was just fifteen, tall and well-
developed for her years, a radiant blonde, with a
delicate Grecian profile, fair, clear transparent
complexion, large, soft, dark blue eyes, veiled by
dark eyelashes, and arched by dark eyebrows, and

GLORIA 111

with an aureole of lightly flowing, pale, golden-
hued hair.

Marcel had not seen her since the preceding
Christmas holidays, a period of nearly seven
months, during which she had bloomed from the
bud to the half-opened rose of womanhood.

He looked at her with surprised and delighted
admiration. He said nothing on the subject, ex
pressed no opinion, paid no compliment only he
refused more emphatically than ever his mother s
invitation to bring his niece and join her party
at Cacouna, Canada; and he resolved, more firmly
than ever, to keep his lovely ward to himself.

Indeed, little Gloria desired nothing better. She
loved her young uncle with all the devotion of a
grateful, loyal, fervent heart, and was perfectly
satisfied with his companionship, and only his, in
all their summer wanderings and sojournings. She
had no one else to love, poor child ; her Aunt Agrip-
pina she had only feared ; and her childhood s play
mate, David Lindsay, she only remembered tender
ly, like one lost long ago, or like the dead. Marcel
was all in all to her.

On this last occasion of which I speak, when
Colonel de Crespigney, first seeing his young ward
after a seven months absence, was startled into
surprise and admiration at the discovery that the
pretty child had bloomed into the beautiful girl,
he resolved that this should be her last year at
school; that whether she should graduate or not
graduate at the next annual commencement, he
should withdraw her from the Sacred Heart Acad
emy and bring her home "for good."

And then?

Marcel kept his future plans to himself.

GLORIA
CHAPTER IX

DUMB LOVE

His heart

Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
That ever shone upon him. He had looked
Upon it till it would not pass away,
But she in these fond feelings had no share;
To her he was a brother; twas a name
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him-
No more. BYRON.

THE years that had been spent by Gloria in study
during the school terms, or in travel during her va
cations, had been passed by David Lindsay on the
little sandy island near the promontory.

This was his post of duty. Here his aged grand
mother still lived without any companion or pro
tector but himself.

He had steadily worked on the fishing landing,
and he had employed his limited leisure in study
ing the elementary school books left him by his lit
tle playmate. He had thoroughly mastered them
all, and now he longed for more liberty and better
means of culture. But, true sentinel of Provi
dence, he would not leave his sterile post of duty
to attain them.

He had long ceased to ask after Gloria, chilled
by the coldness with which his modest inquiries
had been met by Colonel de Crespigney.

But he had never forgotten his childhood friend.
He cherished the memory of the summers passed

GLORIA

in the society of his little playmate as the happiest
portions of his poor life; and he worshiped her im
age, that in the light of that memory shone like
the vision of an angel.

It was she who had found him on the beach toil
ing at his daily task, and had awakened his strong
but dormant intelligence, and inspired him with
the love and longing for knowledge.

He owed her this good, and was glad and grateful
to owe it.

One morning in June, he arose early, as usual,
and looking out from the little loft window of his
bedroom in the island cot, he saw an unusual thing
a large schooner at the old promontory wharf,
and men landing many boxes, barrels and kegs.

He had a job of work to cio on the landing that
day, so he dressed himself quickly, ate his break
fast in a hurry, got into his little old boat, and in a
few moments rowed himself to the wharf.

"What is all this to-do?" he inquired of old
Laban, who was busy receiving the goods.

"Corne ashore and lend a hand here! Our young
lady is coming home for good dis fall, and de house
an ? groun is to be done up splendidly for her an
outen her money, too, for I know Marse Colonel
hasn t got none to spare!" answered the negro, as
he let down a heavy box he had been helping to
land.

David Lindsay secured his boat, sprang on the
wharf, and gave his assistance to the men.

"So Miss de la Vera is really coming home?" he
ventured to ask of Laban.

"Yes, on de first October ! Ole Marse Colonel, he
done gone to Baltimo to take her out n school when
de holidays come, an dey s gwine for a trip to Lun-

GLORIA

nun or Europ , or some o dem dere outlandish
savidge parts o de worl , an dey s gwine to be gone
all de summer; but dey s comin back in de fall;
dat is, ef so be de cannibals out in dem dere parts
don t kill an eat em fust! I fink it s downright
dange ous an a temptin o Providence to leave
one s spectable home an go traipsin off to dem
dare igno nt places Lunnun an Europ , and de
like!" exclaimed Laban, in a tone of disgust and
abhorrence.

"Miss de la Vera going to Europe!" said David
Lindsay, to himself rather than to Laban.

"Hi ! what I tell you, boy? Yes, gwine to Europ
long o Marse Colonel Discrepancy! Gwine to see
de savidges what lib across de big sea. Dare now,
yer got it. I calls it a downright fiyin inter de face
ob Providence. I does! What he fink, de Lord
A mighty put de big sea a rollin tween we an de
cannibals for he to go an sail across it on a big
ship out n contrariness?" said Laban.

"Is Miss Agrippina to be one of the party?" in
quired the young man.

"No. Miss Aggravater is gwine to stay here to
watch the workmen. Miss Aggravater gwine in
deed ! Catch her at it ! Wish she was, dough ! She
might go, dout any danger. Cannibals wouldn t
eat her, leastways not if dey wa n t uncommon
hungry."

David Lindsay said no more, but mused, as he
helped to land the goods.

"Dere s an arckman an a decorum an a skip-
pin gardener comin down by de stage-coach to
morrow," explained Laban, meaning the architect,
decorator and landscape gardener engaged by
Colonel de Crespigney to transfigure the drearjr

GLORIA 115

promontory and its prison-like buildings into a
habitable home for the young heiress.

"And a precious deal ob money it is a gwine to
cost, too, wherever it comes from^ which I do Aspects
it ll be out n Miss Glo s own fortin , for Marse
Colonel Discrepancy hasn t got too much to tro
away, dat I knows."

Laban was mistaken. He had been misled by
appearances.

Marcel de Crespigney, leading his hermit life at
the promontory, never receiving company and never
going from home except when he went to take his
ward from school, spent little money, had few
wants, and lived like a very much poorer gentleman
than he really was.

Hence, in the years he had spent at the promon
tory, the revenues from the fisheries, though not
large, had been left to accumulate until they had
reached a round sum, which he determined to in
vest in the restoration and improvement of Prom
ontory Hall, to make his home as attractive as pos
sible to his beautiful and beloved ward.

The goods brought to the wharf were all landed
and stored away in the old dilapidated store-house,
and then the schooner sailed away, and David Lind
say crossed the point to the fishing landing and set
about his own especial work.

The next day the architect, decorator and land
scape gardener came, and work began. The three
principals went back and forth between the prom
ontory and the city once or twice a month, but
the workmen remained, and were quartered in the
house, to the great discontent of Miss Agrippina,
who vowed that she had never spent such a disa
greeable summer in all the days of her life.

116 GLORIA

The works were all completed, however, by the
middle of October ; the gray stone walls of the old
house were completely covered by a veneering of
thin white slabs, that gave the building the appear
ance of a marble palace. French plate-glass win
dows opened upon piazzas with mosaic* floors and
Corinthian pillars. A mansard roof crowned the
mansion. A fine garden, with a parterre of flowers,
bloomed around it. Beyond that, the once barren
fields were verdant with grass. The fishing land
ing on the point had been abolished as an ugly
nuisance, and a pretty pier, with an equally pretty
boat-house, had been erected on the place. The
old sea-wall was repaired and a hedge of Osage
orange trees was planted on its inner side.

Within the house every part was refurnished
freshly and handsomely, if not very expensively.

When the finishing touch was put to the hanging
of the mirrors and the drooping of the curtains,
the decorator and the upholsterer, who were the
last of the artisans to depart, came to take leave of
Miss Agrippina de Crespigney.

"And I suppose you are very glad to see the last
of us, ma am," said Mr. Bracket, the great artist
in "effects."

"I should rather see you here than your suc
cessors," replied Miss Agrippina, with even unusual
grimness.

"Beg pardon?" said Bracket, interrogatively.

"I say I would rather see you here than your cer
tain successors, the sheriff s officers, for I expect
they will be the next strangers I shall be called
upon to entertain ! Such extravagance I never did
see in all the days of my life! Well, I thank Provi-

GLORIA 117

dence my little portion is safe enough. Marcel
can t make ducks and drakes out of that."

The two men bowed themselves out of Mrs.
"Aggravated" presence and went their way.

Colonel de Crespigney and Gloria were expected
home in a few days. They had returned from their
European tour in a steamer bound for Quebec, and
were making a short tour through Canada, before
completing their travels.

The first of October was a glorious autumn day.
The sun was shining with dazzling splendor from
a deep blue, cloudless sky; a soft, bright golden
haze hung over the gorgeously colored woods and
fields.

The new carriage and horses had been sent to
St. Inigoes to meet the stage that was to bring the
travelers that far on their journey home. It was
from this circumstance that David Lindsay knew
that Colonel de Crespigney and Gloria were ex
pected to arrive that afternoon. He knew, besides,
that they could only come at low tide, when the
waves would have ebbed from the "neck" and left
the road free. There would be low tide at half-past
three o clock.

Now the poor young fisherman was seized with
an irresistible longing to look once more upon the
face of her whom he had loved with the purest and
most devoted affection, from the hour of their child
hood when she found him on the beach and claimed
him as her playmate until this hour, when, after a
seven years absence, she was returning home. If
he should not succeed in getting a glimpse of her
now, he feared that he might never see her again,
for his occupation on the promontory was gone,

118 GLORIA

since the fishing-landing had been replaced by a
pier and a boat-house.

He took his fishing-rod and went down on the
neck at low tide, to wait for her carriage to pass.

He sat on a high rock, and baited his hook for
"sheep s-head," which most did congregate about
that spot. But before he could cast his line into
the sea, the sound of wheels was heard approaching.
He looked up and saw the promontory carriage
coming slowly down the gradual descent leading on
to the neck. He drew his broad-brimmed staw hat
low over his eyes, and his heart almost stood still
as he muttered within himself:

"Will she recognize David Lindsay? I should
know her anywhere, or after any length of time."

The carriage was coming. It was wide open, the
top had been thrown quite down, both back and
front, that the travelers might enjoy the fresh air
and fine scenery of land and water on that delicious
October afternoon.

On the coachman s box sat Laban, lazily holding
the reins. On the front seat, with his back to the
negro, sat Colonel de Crespigney, with his traveling
cap on his knees before him, leaving his fine head,
with his waving black hair and beard and his Ro
man features, bare.

Opposite him, on the back seat, sat a very restless
young lady, with the face of an eager, vivacious
child a face with a delicate Grecian profile, a
dainty, rosebud complexion, sparkling, glad blue
eyes, and rippling, golden-hued hair.

She was constantly springing from side to side,
gazing now on the right, now on the left, to catch
glimpses of distant objects, once familiar, but long
unseen.

GLORIA 119

"Oh, uncle!" she gladly exclaimed. "I can see
the tall trees on this side of the dee-ar old house !"

"Wait until you see the house, my darling!" he
replied, conscious of the surprise he should give her
when he should show her the gray old "peniten
tiary" transfigured to a white palace.

A few more turns of the wheel and he exclaimed :

"Look !"

But the effect was not what he desired and ex
pected. She turned on him a surprised and dis
tressed face, exclaiming :

"Oh, Marcel, what is that? Where is the dee-ar
old home?"

"There it is, my precious child ! That is the old
home, renovated and adorned, and made worthy to
receive its fair young mistress," replied the colonel,
with evident self-complacency.

"Oh, Marcel, how could you? How could you do
such a thing?" she cried, reproachfully "how
could you treat the dee-ar old home that way? It
is not familiar; it is not the same at all! I do not
know it at all! Oh, I am so disappointed and so
sorry !"

"My dear, I thought to have given you a pleasant
surprise. I thought only of your happiness," re
plied the poor colonel.

"And I expected to find the dee-ar old place just
as I left it! Just as I left it ! And, oh ! look there !"

"What now, my dear?"

"Oh, Marcel ! what have you done to the old sea
wall and the dee-ar old fishing landing, where I and
David Lindsay used to play when we were chil
dren?"

"My dear, that fishing-landing was a nuisance to
sight and smell. See what a pretty pier and boat-

120 GLORIA

house are built on its site," said Colonel de Cres-
pigney.

"Oh, Marcel! how could you? How could you?
You have spoiled everything! You have spoiled
everything! You have killed the dee-ar old place!
Instead of a living being in poor old clothes, it is a
dead corpse in fine dress and flowers. Oh, I shall
never see the dee-ar old house and the dee-ar old
landing again ! If I had known this I would never
have come back! I might as well have stayed in
Europe. Oh, I am so disappointed and so sorry I
could break my heart !" cried the girl, with a pit
eous look of distress into the face of her guardian ;
but there she met an expression of so much misery
that her tone changed instantly from reproaches to
self-condemnation.

"Oh, what a selfish, ungrateful wretch I am,
dee-ar Marcel! And such an idiotic little fool be
sides. You did it all to please me, and I ought to
be glad and grateful, and so I shall be when I have
sense enough to appreciate it all; dee-ar Marcel,
forgive me," she pleaded, bending forward to lay
her cheek against his whiskered face, as she had
been used to do in her childhood.

"I am only so grieved, my child, to have given
you pain instead of pleasure; but no doubt I am
but a blundering brute !" sighed the colonel.

"Oh, no, no; you are the very best and dearest
and most unselfish one in the world. I cannot re
member the time when I did not love and honor
you above all other ones on earth !"

"My little Glo>, it was all the more reason I
should have studied your nature and planned for
your happiness more intelligently," sadly replied
the colonel.

GLORIA

"Oh, Marcel ! Don t say that, or I shall think you
have not forgiven me. You have studied my happi
ness more than I deserved. You have done the very
best for me always. In regard to these changes,
they certainly do make a great improvement, which
I shall be sure to appreciate and enjoy. It was
only just at first, when I was looking to see the
dee-ar old place in its old familiar face, that the
change struck me as a disappointment, and I am
such a fool for blurting out my very first thoughts
and feelings!" said Gloria, caressing her uncle.

She was disappointed, poor girl; for to return
some time to the old home and the old life had been
the fond dream of the young, faithful heart in the
long years of her exile and homesickness ; and now
to return and find all changed, even for the better,
was a painful shock.

Colonel de Crespigney knew it now, and could not
forgive himself for not anticipating such an effect.

"Do not look so grave, Marcel, or I shall think
you never will forget my folly," she pleaded. "Lis
ten, now, and let me tell you something, Marcel!
Seeing the dee-ar old place all freshened up, and
decorated and changed into something else, was just
as if, when I was looking for you, and expecting to
see you as you used to look why instead of my
dee-ar, old, black-bearded darkey of an uncle, I had
found a golden-haired, rosy-cheeked young fairy
prince! There! That expresses my feelings in re
gard to seeing the dee-ar old home changed into
something else !"

De Crespigney smiled; he felt pleased and flat
tered ; he also understood her better and loved her
more, as he remembered that she had always cher
ished a sweet, loyal love for old familiar friends and

GLORIA

places. He suddenly recalled the days when he
had first known her as an infant of three years old,
when some one had broken the head of her doll, and
he himself had bought her a splendid young lady
of waxen mould with rosy cheeks and flaxen hair,
and dressed in silk attire, how she had hugged her
poor old headless dolly to her faithful little heart
and refused to part with it in favor of the radiant
new one.

And later when she first arrived at the Promon
tory, bringing a little mongrel dog, who died soon
after, and to comfort her he brought home a little
white poodle, how sadly she turned away from the
new claimant of her notice, murmuring, "Oh, uncle,
I can t love another little dog so soon," though
a few days afterwards she picked up the little
poodle and petted him, muttering, "Poor Carlo, it
wasn t your fault that poor little Flora died, was
it?" and loved him ever afterwards.

About the same time, reading the story of
"Beauty and the Beast/ she had sighed, and said,
"If I had been Beauty I would have loved the dee-ar
old Beast; I would not have wanted to have his
head cut off to change him into anything else, not
even a fairy prince!"

All these traits of her childhood recurred to the
mind of De Crespigney, as he listened to the little
penitent s frank confession.

"I understand, dear heart ! I understand perfect
ly," he said, as he raised her hand and pressed it to
his lips.

She smiled radiantly on him, and then turned
and looked about her, as if in search of other
changes.

GLORIA

Then her eyes fell upon the form of a young man
seated on a rock, and apparently engaged in fishing.

She bent forward and suddenly exclaimed:

"Oh, Marcel, there is David Lindsay ! I know it is
David Lindsay! He has grown tall; of course, I
expected to find him grown up, but he has the same
face and eyes that I should know if I should meet
him in Africa. Oh! I thank the Lord he is not
changed into anything else ! Oh, Marcel ! I must
speak to David Lindsay. Here, Laban, stop the
horses ! Stop them right here !"

The negro coachman touched his hat and drew
up opposite the rock on which the young man sat,
and within a few 7 feet of it.

She leaned out, and called :

"David Lindsay! David Lindsay! Oh, David
Lindsay, please come here!"

He looked up at the sound of her voice, and paled
and shook with emotion as he drew in his fishing-
line, laid it down beside him, arose, and approached
the carriage.

"Oh, David Lindsay, how do you do? I am so
overjoyed to see you once more! Why! don t you
remember me your old playmate of the fishing-
landing?" she inquired, seeing that he hesitated to
take the hand she had offered him.

He took the delicately gloved fingers then, how
ever, and bowed over them.

"Why don t you remember the old sea-wall, and
the old broken boat, and the good times we used to
have there, and the little dinners we used to cook
on the beach, and the little schools we used to keep?
Don t you remember, David Lindsay?" she gladly
inquired, with a childlike eagerness, as she smiled
upon him.

GLORIA

"Oh, yes, Miss, I remember well," he answered,
in a low, subdued voice.

"Oh, I think that was the happiest time in my
whole life, David Lindsay! Don t you?"

"It was the happiest time in mine, Miss," he re
plied, in the same subdued tone, as he kept his eyes
fixed upon the ground, not trusting them to look
at her again.

"And how is dear Granny Lindsay? Is she still at
the cot on the isle? Is she as busy and active as
ever?" inquired Gloria, with new interest in her
tone.

"She is as well as she can be at seventy years of
age, but more infirm than when you knew her last.
She lives at the cot on the isle, and she is as busy,
but not as active, as ever," he answered, slowly and
gravely.

"Oh, what happy, happy days we used to have at
her house, David Lindsay! Such happy, happy
days! Do you remember them?"

Did he not remember them?

Ah, yes ! but, with her bright face beaming down
upon him, bringing the light of those days so vivid
ly before him, with the memory of their frank,
childish affection then, and the consciousness of the
gulf that opened between them now, it had grown
more and more difficult for him to answer her. Now
he seemed tongue-tied.

"Do you think she will let me come and spend a
day with her, just as I used to do? Oh, how I
should like to do so ! It would be so like old times !
Would she let me, David Lindsay?"

"Indeed, she would be very happy to do so," re
plied the young man, partly recovering his voice.

"Well, then, w r ill you ask her if I may come to-

GLORIA 125

morrow? And will you row me over, as you used
to do, David Lindsay?"
."I shall be too happy to do so, Miss de la Vera."

"Ah, how glad I shall be to see dee-ar Granny
Lindsay, and revive one of those old-time, happy,
happy days !" exclaimed Gloria.

"My dear," said Colonel de Crespigney, gravely,
"the tide is coming in, and we are not more than
half-way across. It is not safe to remain here a
moment longer. We can scarcely cross before the
road will be six feet under water !"

"And David Lindsay has to walk ! He will never
be able to cross in safety ! And it is I who have kept
him loitering here! Oh, I am so sorry! But you
must not walk, indeed, David Lindsay ! Get in here
and sit beside me, if you please. Yes, but I insist
upon it now!" she added, seeing that he did not
comply with her request.

"You had better do so, Lindsay," coldly added
Colonel de Crespigney, as he left his own seat and
sat down beside Gloria, leaving the front cushion
free for the young man.

"I thank you very much, Miss de la Vera, and you
also, sir; but I can easily walk the way before the
road will be covered," replied young Lindsay, as he
bowed and retreated from the carriage.

" *A willful man must have his way, " said the
colonel.

"Oh, Marcel, you did not invite him half cor
dially enough !" cried Gloria. "And suppose he was
to be overtaken by the tide and swept away !"

"No danger. Look there," said the colonel, point
ing to the road before the carriage, down which
David Lindsay, with his fishing tackle in his hand,
was striding at a good rate.

126 GLORIA

The horses were now started and driven off at a
speed. They passed the young man, who raised his
hat as they whirled out of sight.

"Marcel, I will never forgive you if David Lind
say is drowned !" exclaimed Gloria.

"No danger, Miss!" volunteered old Laban from
the box. "There is a plenty o time, an he s a
famous hand at walking."

"Foot at walking, you mean, old man, don t
you?" inquired Colonel de Crespigney.

"I don t see how you can jest, Marcel, when any
fellow-creature, not to say David Lindsay, is in
peril," exclaimed Gloria, reproachfully.

"Do you, then, suppose, my dear, that T am capa
ble of jesting with the peril of any fellow-creature?
Is not my jesting proof enough that there is no
peril?" inquired the colonel, deprecatingly.

She did not answer him. She had twisted her
head quite around to look back on the figure of the
young man, who was striding fast behind the car
riage.

And during the remainder of their rapid drive
she continued from time to time to look back at
the striding figure, until at length they had crossed,
the long stretch of road and reached the higher and
broader portion of the promontory that was so soon
to be turned by the high tide into an island.

Then for the last time she looked and saw that
though the lowest part of the isthmus was covered
with the waves, yet as David Lindsay was already
ascending the rise towards the promontory, he was
out of danger.

It was nearly dark when they reached the house,
which was already lighted up for the reception of
the travelers.

GLORIA

Miss Agrippina de Crespigney, attended by So
phia and Lamia, stood in the hall to welcome them
home.

She took Gloria by the waist, kissed her on both
cheeks and said:

"You are looking very well, my dear. How much
you have grown !"

And then Gloria returned her caresses and her
compliments, saying:

"You are looking finely, aunt. You are not
changed at all. I think no one is changed except
David Lindsay and myself. I think people must
grow up and stay so until they become very old."

But quick Miss Grip had already turned to her
nephew to shake hands with him, and left Gloria
free to receive the welcome of her colored friends,

"How you has growed ! My patience alibe, how
you has growed, honey !" was the greeting of Phia.

" Deed I is mighty proud to see you, Miss Glo ? ,
deed is I !" was the cordial exclamation of Lamia*

"You had better prove your feelings in a more
practical manner by showing your mistress up to
her room," said prompt Miss Grip.

"Come on, Miss GloM" said the unceremonious
girl.

"Yes, indeed, Lamia, I do wish to lay off my
wraps. I have been wearing them so long," re
sponded the young lady, as she followed her maid
up the broad staircase to the large southeast room
overlooking the sea, which had been hers in her
childhood.

"Ain t it just lovely, Miss Glo ?" triumphantly
exclaimed the girl, as she threw open the door and
displayed the renovated and decorated chamber,
blooming like a rose in its pink silk and white lace

128 GLORIA

curtains, its pink velvet and white satin chairs, and
its pink and white walls and carpet.

"Isn t it just lovely, now, Miss Glo ?" repeated
the pleased niaid.

"Oh, dear, yes, I suppose it is; but it isn t like
my dee-ar old room at all ! Not even the fire-place !"
she sighed, as she turned to the glowing coals on a
polished steel grate that had replaced the blazing
hickory logs of the old open chimney that was so
familiar to her childhood.

"Why, you don t like it, Miss Glo !" exclaimed
the girl in surprise and disappointment.

"Oh, yes, I do; but it is not like home at all!
Nothing is like home, and I feel as if I had come
into a strange house, and should never reach home
again!" sighed the homesick child, as she laid her
hat on the pretty counterpane of white crochet over
pink silk.

"And we took such pains to please you !" said the
maid, sorrowfully.

"Poor Lamia ! Well, I am pleased, only I would
like to have seen my old room once more just as it
was. Come now and help me to dress. My boxes
have arrived, I suppose. They were sent by express
to Leonardtown last week."

"Oh, yes, Miss, soon as ebber de letter an de keys
come by mail, us sent daddy wid de wagon to Len-
nuntown to fetch de boxes home, which dey rove
safe an soun , an I unpacked dem an put all de
fings way in de boorers an ward obes."

"That was right. Just give me the blue cashmere
suit and the lace that is with it."

The girl obeyed, and the young lady soon com
pleted her toilet and went down stairs to join her
aunt and uncle in the drawing-room.

GLORIA 129

Dinner was soon afterward served.

When that was over, the small party returned to
the drawing-room, where Colonel de Crespigney
wished to show his niece the new grand piano that
he had selected for her. Here was also a music-
stand supplied with the works of the great masters.

He opened the piano and led her to it.

She seated herself and touched the keys, and
found the instrument to be one of very superior
tone.

She spent the remainder of the evening in play
ing and singing the favorite airs and songs of her
uncle. Her voice was a pure, clear soprano, and
her soul was always in her song. Hence, though
she might never have achieved a grand success as a
public singer, she was very effective as a parlor
performer.

At the close of this musical entertainment the
small party separated and retired to bed.

And so ended the day of Gloria s return home.

CHAPTER X

MYSTERIOUS DANGER

Something of a cold mistrust,
Wonderful, and most unjust,
Something of a surly fear
Fills my soul when he is near.

CAROLINE NORTON.

GLORIA did not carry out her intention of going
to Sandy Isle on the next day to see her old friend,
Granny Lindsay.

130 GLORIA

The weather had changed in the night, and a week
of steady rain set in.

The small family were confined to the house, and
had to find what amusement they could within
doors.

Colonel de Crespigney found occupation and en
tertainment enough in unpacking his books from
the boxes in which they had been carefully put
away to keep them safe from the workmen who
were in the house, engaged in the work of restora
tion, during his absence in Europe with his ward.

Gloria found interesting employment in turning
over and inspecting the beautiful wardrobe she had
brought over from London and Paris; and after
wards in rambling through all the rooms of the
rejuvenated old house, to which she could scarcely
become reconciled.

"Oh, it is all very fine, I dare say, and it was very
good of the colonel, and I ought to admire it ?ery
much, but it reminds me of the melancholy old
ladies I have seen at public places, all painted up
with rouge and pearl powder. The old house was
more respectable and even more beautiful and
artistic in its old aspect."

Miss de Crespigney engaged herself in prepara
tions for her departure, for she was going South to
spend the winter with her brother and sister-in-
law, and had delayed her departure only to receive
Colonel de Crespigney and Gloria on their return
to Promontory Hall.

By the time that the rainy season came to an end
and the sun of the Indian summer shone out again,
Colonel de Crespigney s books were all unpacked,
catalogued, and restored to their niches in the new
ly furnished library ; Miss de la Vera s personal ef-

GLORIA 131

fects were inspected and arranged, and Miss de
Crespigney s preparations for her departure were
complete.

"I have reconstructed your household govern
ment, and trained your servants so well in the seven
years that I have passed in this house, Marcel, that
now I think affairs will run quite smoothly in the
present groove with only the nominal mistress of
the house that the little countess will make. I
think, however, that you should take your niece to
Washington in December, and spend the fashion
able season there with her, where she may have
some opportunity of marriage, suitable to her rank
and wealth," said Miss de Crespigney to the colonel
in a tete-a-tete she held with him on the day before
she was to leave the promontory.

"Gloria is but sixteen. There is time enough five
years hence to think of marrying her off," replied
Colonel de Crespigney, wincing, for he was less in
clined than ever to display his treasure to the
world ; more disposed than before to keep her all to
himself.

Late in the day, Miss de Crespigney said to the
young lady:

"You must make your uncle take you to Wash
ington for the season, my dear. It is not right that
you should be buried in your youth in this remote
and solitary home. You are the Countess de la
Vera, and should be brought in society suited to
your rank. My sister-in-law, Madame de Cres
pigney, will be in Washington this winter. She
has no unmarried daughters of her own, and I am
sure she would feel honored to chaperone the Coun
tess Gloria. Make your uncle take you to Wash
ington this winter, my dear."

132 GLORIA

"Oh, Aunt Agrippiua, I thank you for your kind
ness in thinking about me so much, and I assure
you that Marcel would do anything to please me
without being made to do it ; but really I do want
to stay home and be quiet this winter. Ever since
I left school the first of July I have been going
to places all the time. I am so tired of going to so
many places and seeing so many things. I don t
want to go away again for ever so long. I want to
stay here and see all my dee-ar old friends and live
the dee-ar old times over again," pleaded Gloria.

"My child, you can never live the old times over
again any more than you can go back to your baby
hood and live that over again. And as for old
friends, Gloria, you have none."

"Oh, yes ! there is dee-ar Granny Lindsay and
David Lindsay !"

"Not the right sort of friends for the Countess
de la Vera. But there is all the more reason why
you should go to Washington. I will speak to my
nephew again on the subject," said Miss de Cres-
pigney.

And she did speak to the colonel that same after
noon, but without effect.

No doubt if she had stayed longer she might have
gained her point.

"For if a man talk a very long time," &c.

I have quoted that piece of wisdom already. Miss
de Crespigney had not "a very long time" to "talk."
8he was to leave Promontory Hall the next morn
ing.

Her last "official" act that night was to call the
three servants into the dining-room and give them

GLORIA 133

a final lecture on their duties to themselves, to each
other, and to their master and mistress.

"And let me impress this fact upon you," she
said, gravely; "the young lady of this house is not
a Marylander. She is not even an American. She
is a Portuguese West Indian, and a countess by
birth and inheritance. You are not to address her,
or speak of her, as Miss Glo . I won t have it ! You
are to speak of her as the Countess Gloria. Remem
ber that I"

Then, after some other instructive discourses, the
old lady distributed some presents among them and
dismissed the party.

The next morning Miss de Crespigney left Prom
ontory Hall in the old family traveling carriage,
driven by Laban as far as St. Inigoes, where she
was to meet the stage-coach that was to take her to
Baltimore.

Her directions to the servants in regard to Miss
de la Vera s Portuguese birth and rank were remem
bered with simple indignation by the two women,
Thia and Lamia, who did not know a Portuguese
from a portemonnaie, or a countess from a counter
pane.

"Call our Miss Glo countess, indeed ! ShaVt do
no sich fing! Deed, I fink it would be downright
undespectful to call our young lady countess, as
nebber had the trouble ob countin de chickens, or
de ducks, or any fing on de place, all her blessed
life," exclaimed Phia, wrathfully beating out her
excitement on the feather pillow of the bed she was
helping her daughter to make up.

"What Miss Aggravater means by it, anyways?"
scornfully inquired Lamia.

134 GLORIA

"Contrariness, nuffin else!" replied Thia, giving
the pillow a portentous whack with her fists.

And from that time they continued to call the
golden-haired girl Miss Glo , and nothing else.

Meanwhile Gloria and her uncle lived together
da/ after day, and week after week, and never
seemed to tire of each other, or to desire any other
society.

She had none of the cares that might have fallen
on her as the young mistress of the house.

Phia had been trained by Miss "Aggravater" into
a model manager, and was quite capable of assum
ing all the responsibility and discharging all the
duties of a good housekeeper.

Thus the young lady, while holding all the au
thority of the mistress, enjoyed all the freedom of
a guest.

Every morning after breakfast she brought her
little fancy work-basket down into the library, and
sat in a low chair by the table where her uncle was
reading or writing.

She sat very quietly working, as she used in her
childhood to sit playing. She never disturbed him
by a word or a movement, being contented only to
remain near him.

Yet whatever might be his occupation, of reading
or of writing, he was sure to share it with her. It
was in this way : If he happened to be engaged with
a book, he would read choice selections from his
author, and then draw her thoughts forth in praise
or censure of the subject, or its treatment. If he
were engaged with his pen, he would read to her
what he had written, and invite her to suggest any
alteration or improvement that might occur to her
mind.

GLORIA 135

And he was often amused and sometimes startled
by the brightness and originality of her thoughts
and criticisms.

Sometimes he would pause in his employment
and sit and silently watch her at her pretty work of
silk embroidery. At such times, she worked more
diligently than at others, keeping her eyes fixed
upon her needle, and never daring to raise them to
his face.

If you had asked her why was this? she could
not haje told you. She did not know herself. She
only knew, or rather felt, that, at such moments, to
meet MarcePs eyes made her own eyes sink to the
floor, and her cheeks to burn with confusion, in
dignation and misery.

She hated herself for this unkind emotion, which
she could neither comprehend nor conquer.

"Why," she asked of her heart in vain "why
should I feel so wounded, insulted and offended at
the steady gaze of dee-ar Marcel, who loves me so
truly, and whom I love and honor more than any
other one in the whole world?"

She could not answer her own question. She only
felt that she hated herself for entertaining such feel
ings, and sometimes even hated her dee-ar Marcel
for inspiring them.

From some strange intuition she had ceased to
call him "Marcel, dee-ar," with tender slowness
drawing out the word into two syllables, and dwell
ing with pathetic fondness on the first. She called
him "uncle, dear," with respectful brevity, and
nothing more.

On one occasion, while she was sitting at his feet
in the library, engaged with her flower embroidery
in colored silks, and not daring to raise her eyes,

136 GLORIA

because her burning cheeks and shrinking heart as
sured her that he had ceased reading and was gaz
ing steadily upon her, he said, with a touching sad
ness:

"I fear that you are often dull in this lonely
house, dear child."

"Oh, no, uncle, never dull," she answered, with
out raising her eyes.

"And never weary of a tiresome bookworm like
me?"

"Never, uncle, dear," she answered, kindly,
touched by the pathos of his tone, but half afraid
of the pity that she felt for him, lest it should Jead
her into some vague, ill-understood wrong or woe.

"Gloria," he said, in a strangely earnest tone.

"Well, uncle?" she breathed, in fear of she knew
not what.

"Look at me, my darling."

She raised her eyes to his face, but when she met
his glance she dropped them immediately.

"Gloria !"

"What is it, uncle, dear?"

"I wish you would not call me uncle. I am not
your uncle, child. Do you not know it?"

She did not speak or look up, but worked steadily
on her embroidery, feeling that the atmosphere op
pressed her so that she could scarcely breathe.

"Do you not know that I am not your uncle,
Gloria? Do you not know that I am not the least
kin to you? Answer me, my darling."

"Yes, I know it," said the perplexed girl, scarcely
above her breath.

"Then you do not love me the less for not being
your -own uncle?"

"Oh, no," breathed the girl.

GLORIA 137

"While I Ah! my child, I thank Heaven

every day of my life that I am no blood relation of
yours," he added earnestly.

She heard him with a shudder, but made no re-

piy-

"You must not call me uncle any longer, my
darling. You must call me Marcel/ as you used
to do. Do you hear me, Gloria? Will you call me
Marcel, as of old?"

She felt herself almost suffocating under the pas
sion of his gaze, but she forced herself to answer,
though in the lowest tone:

"I cannot do so now."

"But why? You used to do so, my dearest. You
used to call me nothing but Marcel."

"That was when I was a baby or a child. I
called you what I heard others call you as chil
dren will. I knew no better then. I know better
now," she answered, with a fruitless attempt to
speak firmly; for her voice sank and almost ex
pired, as she wished herself a thousand miles from
her present seat, yet felt that she had no power to
flee.

"But, my dear, you cannot go on calling me uncle,
for I am not your uncle," he answered, really
pleased and flattered by the distress that he fatally
misunderstood, because, in fact, it resembled the
sweet confusion of the girls who had been "in love"
with him in his earlier youth. "No, Gloria, you
must not call me uncle," he repeated.

"Then I must call you Colonel de Crespigney,"
she replied, without raising her oppressed eyes.

"Never ! that would be almost as bad as the other.
No, you must call me Marcel, as you used to do.

138 GLORIA

How sweetly the syllables fell, bird-like, bell-like,
flute-like, from your lips, my darling."

She made no answer, but wished she had the
power to rise and go away.

"Gloria," he said, dropping his voice to the low
est tone "Gloria, I told you just now that I
thanked Heaven there was no blood relationship
between you and me ! Can you divine, my love, why
I do so thank Heaven that we are of no kin? *

She trembled, but could not speak or move.

"Can you hot, my child? Ah! you do! you do!"
he sighed, seizing both her hands and trying to
draw her towards him.

The touch gave her the power she needed.

"No ! I don t ! I don t know what you mean !" she
suddenly cried, snatching her hands from his, start
ing up and rushing out of the room. Nor did she
stop until she had gained the solitude of her own
chamber, where she banged to and locked the door,
and then sank half dead upon her sofa.

She really did not know, and did not want to
know, what her guardian meant by his strange
speech any more than by his strange manner. "She
understood a horror in his words, but not his
words." She felt a sudden abhorrence of his per
son that sent her flying from his presence.

And now, in the seclusion of her own room, her
overwrought feelings broke forth in a flood of tears.

These relieved her, and then she began to ask
herself the cause of all this excessive emotion. She
could discover no reasonable cause. Her guardian
had been as kind, or even kinder, than usual. He
had only looked at her very intently, and asked her
if she knew why he thanked Heaven that there was

GLORIA 139

no blood relationship between them; and he iiad
taken her hand in his to draw her nearer to him.

Now, what was there in all this to turn her sick
even to faint ness? To fill her with terror and dis
gust? To make her fling his hands off and rush
from the room?

She could not tell. She said to herself that she
had behaved very rudely, harshly, unkindly ! What
ever her guardian had meant by his strange be
havior, he had meant no evil. How could he mean
evil? No, he had meant none; of that she felt quite
sure all the time. And yet she had rushed rudely
away from him, and hurt him who had never meant
anything other than good to her, and she felt very
sorry for her own conduct.

"I am too impulsive. Uncle always told me I
was too impulsive. Even the mother-superior of
the Sacred Heart Convent school used to tell me
that unless I watched and prayed I would some
day commit some fatal error on an impulse that
might ruin my life. Yes, I am too impulsive. I
must learn self-control, and not worry others be
cause I cannot understand them. I have hurt my
good uncle, who means me nothing but good, and
I must try to make amends to him," she said to
herself.

But she called him her "good uncle." and not
her "dee-ar Marcel," and even in her tender com
punction she felt a latent misgiving, a vague fear
of some wrong or woe into which this sweet peni
tence might lead her.

"If I only had a mother," she sighed.

Meanwhile, in the library, Marcel de Crespigney
held an interview with himself full of bitter self-
reproach and lamentations.

140 GLORIA

"I have alarmed and repelled her by too sudden
an approach. And yet I thought that six months
of the close companionship and easy intercourse of
travel, toegther with the affection and confidence
she has always shown to me, had prepared the way
to a nearer and dearer union ! But I have been too
impatient, too hasty, too importunate. I should
have approached her gradually, gently. I should
have remembered that she is not quite like other
girls. She is very delicate, dainty, refined, sensi
tive yea, a very mimosa, that shrinks and trem
bles at a rude breath or touch. I must be patient,
very patient for weeks, for months, if I hope to win
her hand."

CHAPTER XI

TERROR

"No more ! I ll hear no more ! Begone and leave me !"
"Not hear me? By my sufferings but you shall !"

OTWAY.

GLORIA remained in her own room until the din
ner-bell rang.

Then she arose, hastily arranged her dress,
glanced into the mirror to be sure that all traces of
the morning s stormy emotion had passed away
from her face at least, however it might still trouble
her spirit or influence her conduct, and finally she
went down stairs and into the dining-room.

There she found Colonel de Crespigney, looking
ever paler than usual. He fixed his large, dark,
dreamy eyes upon her, not offensively now, but

GLORIA

with a mournfully appealing gaze, that went to her
heart, as he gently took her hand and murmured :

"I am very unhappy, Gloria. I frightened you
this morning, dear. I do not know how I did it.
I did not mean to do it ; and I beg your pardon, my
child."

"Oh, uncle, dear, do not say that. It was I, my
self, who was so rude and absurd. I do not know
why I was so. I never meant to be. I hope you
will forgive me," she answered, speaking from the
pity of her heart.

Then with an instantaneous reaction of fear that
fell like a blow upon her consciousness, she re
gretted her tenderness, and wished that she had not
spoken so warmly.

He ah ! he only heard her gracious words, only
saw her sweet smile; he could not perceive the
changing, shrinking spirit. He beamed on her with
a look that made her shiver, as he drew her hand
within his arm and led her to the table with old-
time princely courtesy, and then took his own seat.

Laban had just placed the soup on the table, and
now stood behind his master s chair to wait.

While the servant remained present there was
no more conversation between the guardian and the
ward than the etiquette of the dinner hour re
quired.

But when the man had removed the cloth and
placed the fruits, cake and coffee on the table and
had left the room, and the uncle and niece were
alone together, though the feelings of each towards
the other were of the kindliest nature, yet there fell
a certain painful constraint on their intercourse,
such as had never existed in all their past lives, but

GLORIA

such as could never quite pass away in all their
future days.

How was this?

For weeks Marcel de Crespigney had rendered
his youthful ward very uneasy by his manner to
ward her. On that morning he had frightened her
from her self-possession, and she had rushed from
him in terror. Later and cooler reflection had con
vinced her that she had really no actual cause for
offence or fear. And when he had made his hum
ble apology, her heart had been so touched that she
had more than forgiven him, she had spoken ten
derly to him, and she had taken all the blame upon
herself. Then, with strange misgivings of wrong
and woe, she had regretted her graciousness, and
when he beamed on her with a look of love and joy,
she had shrunk up into reserve and cautiousness.

She became possessed of that

"Surly fear and cold disgust,
Wonderful and most unjust,"

which she could neither comprehend nor conquer;
for which she often blamed herself, but which now
held her tongue-tied and downcast in the presence
of her guardian.

He, on his own part, quick to perceive her state,
felt that he had again lost her confidence and filled
her with fear; and he also grew reticent in looks
and speech, and consequently depressed and mourn
ful.

She gave him a cup of coffee, without a word.

He took it with a silent bow.

Both were relieved when, at the end of the cere
mony, they were free to leave the dining-room.

GLORIA 143

She WPS the first to rise from the table. He fol
lowed her, opened the door, and held it until she
had passed out.

In the hall Gloria paused with indecision as to
her next step.

She had always been accustomed, since her re
turn home, to go into the drawing-room, sit down
at the grand piano and play some of Marcel de
Crespigney s favorite music, and, later in the even
ing, just before retiring, to sing some of his best-
loved songs.

Now she stood for a moment in doubt. Her vague
uneasiness made her wish for the privacy and safe
ty of her own chamber. Her benevolence made her
unwilling to wound her guardian s feelings by any
such avoidanc of his company.

Only for a moment she hesitated, and then she
led the way to the drawing-room, followed by
Colonel de Crespigney.

She played and sang for him all the evening, as
usual, and on bidding him good-night, gave him
her hand to kiss, as before.

He merely touched it with his lips, and dropped
it without a word.

Gloria went to her room and retired to bed ; but
it was long before she could compose herself to
sleep, and when she did so her slumbers were
troubled with evil dreams that kept her tossing
and starting all night.

Only towards morning she slept soundly so
soundly that she was first awakened by the ringing
of the breakfast-bell.

She arose in haste and dressed herself, and went
down to the breakfast-room, where she found her
guardian pacing to and fro, waiting for her.

144 GLORIA

"Good-morning, uncle, dear," she said, holding
out her hand.

" Uncle/ and always uncle, " he sighed, in a
tone of reproach, as he held her hand and sought
to meet her eyes. "I am not your uncle. I do not
like the name. I have told you so, my dear. And
yet it is uncle, and always uncle. "

"Yes, it is, and must be uncle, and always
uncle, and nothing but uncle, from me to you,
uncle, dear," she answered, persistently, though in
a trembling tone, keeping her eyes fixed upon the
floor lest they should encounter his gaze for the
gaze of those large, dark, dreamy, mournful orbs
was beginning to have a terror and fascination of
the serpent or the devil for her.

"You have not forgiven me yet, Gloria," he an
swered.

"Indeed I have," she replied, moving quickly to
her place at the head of the table and touching the
call-bell to bring in Laban with the coffee pot.

Breakfast passed off very much as the dinner of
the preceding day had done, in mutual constraint.

When it was over, and both left the table, Colonel
de Crespigney passed into the library, where he
usually spent his mornings.

It had been Gloria s unvarying custom to follow
him thither with her needlework and sit sewing in
her little low chair, while he read or wrote at the
table.

Now, however, she could not bear to re-enter the
place of the previous day s terror. She took her
garden hat and shawl from the hall rack and put
them on.

"Where are you going, my dear?" inquired the
colonel.

GLORIA 145

"For a little, solitary walk. I wish to be alone,
and I need more air and exercise than I can get
here. The day is so beautiful, too, that I must im
prove it. There are so few fine days left at this
season of the year," she answered, as she drew on
her gloves.

The colonel hesitated. He would rather have
joined her; but her emphatic declaration that she
wished a solitary walk, forbade him to force his un
welcome company upon her.

"Good-morning, uncle, dear; I shall return be
fore lunch," she said, as she left the house.

He watched her until she closed the front door
behind her, and then he sighed and turned sadly to
his study and shut himself in.

Gloria stood on the new portico above the new
terrace and looked all over the renovated domain.
Terrace below terrace, the ground fell from the
house down to the park wall. Below that, encir
cling and enclosing the round of the end, arose the
high, strong, gray sea-wall, shutting out the sight
of the beach. It was so solid that the only egress
in that direction was through the little, substantial
stone boat-house that was built against it, and
whose strong, iron-bound oak doors, both landward
and seaward, were kept locked.

The only means of leaving the promontory was
by water through the boat-house when the doors
happened to be unlocked, or by land across the
Rogue s Neck when the tide was low.

"Really, now that the sea-wall is rebuilt the place
is more like a penitentiary than ever," said Gloria
to herself, as she walked away from the house.

She wanted to get off the promontory, to take a
longer walk than she could get within its limits, so

146 GLORIA

she resolved to leave it by way of Rogue s Neck
and indulge in a ramble through the wintry woods
on the main.

It was a really splendid day within about a week
of the Christmas holidays. No snow had fallen yet,
nor were the trees of that latitude stripped of the
glorious autumnal regalia. Enough bright leaves
had fallen to carpet the ground with a carpet more
brilliant than the looms of Axminster or Brussels
ever wove; but not enough to be missed from the
royal robes of the forest. The glorious beauty of
the autumn woods seen across the water, so at
tracted the young girl that she walked swiftly on
towards Rogue s Neck, never thinking whether it
were high or low tide, only anxious to cross over
and plunge into the depths of the grand forest. But
when she came in sight of the Neck she found, to
her disappointment, that the waves were dashing
wildly over the whole length and breadth of it. It
was high tide, and it would be six hours before the
road would be passable again.

She turned away and met David, the young
fisherman, face to face!

Her disappointment was forgotten in an instant.
Her eyes danced with joy. Here was some one, at
least, of whom she was not afraid in whom she
could perfectly confide who would never terrify,
humiliate, or in any way wound her.

"Oh ! David Lindsay, I am so glad to see you !"
she said, frankly, holding out her hand to him.

He took it, bowed, and dropped it, all in silence.

"Oh! David Lindsay, why haven t you come to
see your old playmate all this time? I have been
home nearly three months, and you have not been
to see me once, not once. You promised to come

GLORIA 147

the day after my arrival to take me to s?e your
grandmother. Well, I know it rained that day,
and for a week afterwards, and you didn t come be
cause you knew I could not go out in such weather.
But there has been very fine weather since then, yet
you have never come to see your old playmate, never
once and such friends as we used to be! I take
it very unkind of you, David Lindsay, that I do !"
she said, with an air of injury that she really felt

"Miss de la Vera," gravely replied the young
man, as soon as the cessation of her scolding little
tongue gave him the chance, "I have been to see
you many times within the last three months, but
you have always been denied to me."

"Eh!" exclaimed Gloria, opening her eyes wide
with incredulous astonishment.

"I beg to repeat that I have come many times to
pay my respects, but have always been denied the
privilege."

"Now, who has dared to do that? Who has dared
to profane my freedom in that manner? David
Lindsay, I never knew of your coming or I would
have seen you. Now tell me all about it," she ex
claimed, her eyes sparkling, and her cheeks burn
ing with the sense of wrong and outrage, as she
turned about to continue her walk. He also turned
and went beside her, as he answered :

"Miss de la Vera, the morning after your arrival
home I came up to the hall, not by appointment,
not to take you to Sandy Isle, for I knew you could
not go in such a storm, but to ask you to fix another
day when I might have the honor of serving you.
I was met by Colonel de Crespigney, to whom I
made known my errand. He told me that the
weather would not permit Miss de la Vera to go out

148 GLORIA

that day, nor was it likely that it would be any more
favorable for a week to come, and when, in fact, it
should be so, and when his ward should desire to
make a visit, he would himself escort her. His man
ner told me that my visit was uncalled for, unwel
come, and improper. I bowed very low, and left
him."

"He never told me that you had been here. I
blamed you for neglect. And it is all his fault. Oh !
I am glad I met you, David Lindsay ! Tell me more!
You came again?"

"Yes, many times, Miss de la Vera, but I was al
ways met by Colonel de Crespigney, who told me
that you were occupied and could not see me."

"But in the first place, you must have seen one
of the servants. Did you then ask for me, or for
the colonel?"

"For you, Miss de la Vera. I always asked the
servant I happened to see to take my respectful
message to yourself, that I waited on you, accord
ing to your orders. And always Colonel de Cres
pigney came out and told me that you were engaged,
or words to the same effect, and so dismissed me,
showing by his manner that he considered my call
impertinent. Yet, as he did not actually forbid me
to come again, and as I considered that I was acting
under your orders, I continued to come once or
twice a week. I was on my way to the house when
we met."

"Oh!" burst forth Gloria, with one of her irre
pressible impulses. "I think it was most outrageous
for any one to interfere with my liberty of action in
that way! I will never submit to such control!
Never! It was the farthest thing from my dear
father s thoughts that my will should be so ham-

GLORIA 149

pered ! He made every provision for my freedom
and happiness!"

"Miss de la Vera," said the young man, speaking
conscientiously and generously, "I think your
guardian acted for the best. He had the right to
deny any visitor to you whom he disapproved of
for any reason. My grandmother said so when I
told her of my failure. And she always said, be
sides, that Colonel de Crespigney was the most in
dulgent guardian that she ever heard of, and that
you had more freedom, even when a child, than any
young lady she ever knew, having your own way
in almost everything. And you know my old grand
mother is a wise and good woman."

"Yes, I know she is, and I honor her, and I love
her dearly, and that is the reason why I wanted so
much to go to see her, and asked you to come and
row me over in the boat. And to think you came
so often and I did not know it. Oh-h !"

"Perhaps I ought not to have persisted in coming.
Perhaps I ought to have taken a hint from the
colonel s manner, and stayed away after my first
repulse," said the young fisherman.

"No, you ought not, David Lindsay. You ought
to have minded me rather than him !" said the little
autocrat.

"Then I ought not to have told you of my re
peated rebuffs to stir up angry feelings in your
bosom."

"Now, how could you help it with such a cate-
chiser as I am? You could not tell a falsehood by
saying that you had not been there, and you could
not act a falsehood by keeping silence."

"True; but I beg you to be just to your guardian,
Miss de la Vera."

150 GLORIA

"Oh, David Lindsay, do you be just to yourself.
Is your boat here?"

"Yes, Miss. It is near this end of the Neck. I
cannot land at the old fishing landing now, because
of the new sea-wall and the locked boat-house block
ing off all from the beach in that direction."

"I understand. The place is more like a prison
than ever. Well, David Lindsay, please to walk
up with me to the house. I have a parcel there for
Granny Lindsay which I want you to help me carry
to the boat ; for I am going to Sandy Isle to see her
this morning/ said the young lady, in a tone of de
cision that admitted of no reply.

So the young fisherman walked obediently by her
side until they reached the hall.

Gloria opened the front door, which, in that safe
seclusion, was never locked in the daytime, and in
vited the young man to follow her in.

"Sit here in the hall, David Lindsay, while I run
up to my room and get my parcel/ she said, point
ing to a chair.

At that moment the study door opened on the
right, and Colonel de Crespigney came out and
looked about as if to see what was the matter. Of
course, his eyes fell at once upon the form of the
young fisherman just seated in the chair.

"David Lindsay is here, at my request, to take
me to Sandy Isle to see Dame Lindsay," said Gloria,
pausing, with her hand upon the lowest post of the
banisters, and her foot upon the lowest step of the
stairs.

"Oh !" replied the colonel, not very graciously,
as he looked slowly from the girl to the young
man,

Gloria paused as if inviting or defying him to

GLORIA 151

any controversy on the subject; but lie never said
another word, and after a minute s delay went back
into his study and shut the door.

Gloria flew up stairs to her chamber, and in a
few moments came down with two parcels in her
hand.

"I have made my bundle into two, you see; one
for you to carry and one for me," she said, as she
handed him the larger one; and perhaps she could
not have explained, even to herself, the subtle deli
cacy of feeling that induced her to do this, so as
not to seem to treat her old playmate as a servant
or a porter, to carry all her luggage.

David wished to take both, but her peremptory
decision prevented him.

Just as they were starting to go. Colonel de Cres-
pigney emerged from his study, cloaked and gloved.
He took his hat from the rack, saying pleasantly :

"I hope you will permit me to make a third in
this party, my dear. I should like to go."

Gloria was dumfounded with astonishment.
Besides, what could she say in opposition to so
reasonable a proposal? She could say nothing.

The three walked out together, Colonel de Cres-
pigney taking the little parcel from his ward s hand
and carrying it himself.

She made no objection to this. She rather liked
it, because David Lindsay was also carrying a
bundle.

"What are the contents of these parcels, if I may
inquire, my dear?" asked her guardian.

"Presents for my dee-ar Granny Lindsay that I
brought all the way from Edinboro , but have not
had the opportunity of taking to her before, be
cause David Lindsay, whom I requested to come

152 GLORIA

and row me over to the isle, was always denied me
when he came to the house," answered Gloria, ruth
lessly.

"Ah !" said her guardian ; but he offered no ex
planation.

David led the way to his boat, and assisted the
lady and gentleman to enter it. He made them
comfortable on the seats, and then taking both oars,
rowed vigorously and rapidly for the little sand
hill.

In a very few moments they touched the beach,
and the young boatman secured the boat and as
sisted the passengers to land.

"Now," said Gloria, addressing her two com
panions, as her queenly eyes traveled slowly from
one to the other, "you two will please to bring my
bundles as far as the door of the house, but no far
ther. I want you, if you please, then to return to
the boat and wait for me; for I want my dee-ar
Granny Lindsay all to myself to-day."

"Very well, little despot; you shall be obeyed,"
said Colonel de Crespigriey, answering for both,
as they led the way to the dame s cottage, followed
by the young girl.

The day was cold, though clear, so the cottage
door was closed.

"Here, now, leave the bundles, and go your way.
I will join you in the boat, in half an hour," said
Gloria.

Her two servants set down their burdens where
they were told to put them, and went where they
were ordered to go.

Gloria watched them not out of sight, for that
she could not, on the tiny islet, where, from the
rocky centre to the sandy circumference, everything

GLORIA 153

was distinctly visible; but she watched them go
down to the beach and begin to walk around it,
before she knocked at the cottage door.

"I wonder if uncle will say anything to David
Lindsay? I hope he will not, for it was I who
brought him to the house this time," she said to her
self, as she knocked again, for her first summons
had not been answered. Now, however, the door
opened, and Dame Lindsay appeared, smiling
kindly, as of old, though looking rather feebler
and more infirm than Gloria had ever seen her.

"Ah, young lady, is it eeself at last come to see
the old ornan? I knew ? ee would sooner or later!
Come in, dearie. Eh! then, what is all this? and
where is David, that he has not brought them for
>ee?" she said, on espying the parcels.

"Oh, Granny Lindsay, he did bring them for me,
he and uncle; but I would not let them stop. I
sent them back to the boat, because I wanted to
have you all to myself," said Gloria, as she picked
up one bundle, while the old woman took the other,
and they entered the house together.

"Now sit ? ee down, and take off ee things,
dearie," said the dame, as she placed a chair.

"I will sit down, dear Granny Lindsay, but not
take off my hat this time, because uncle would
come, and his doing so has prevented me from
spending the day with you as I wished so much
to do; for, oh ! I remember what happy, happy days
I used to have here with you and David! And
nothing is changed here! Nothing, nothing! The
very chest of drawers and table and chairs sit in
the very places where they used to sit in the sweet
old time."

"Why, dearie, everything sits where it must sit.

154. GLORIA

In a room like this everything is put into the place
where it fits best, and there it has to stay. There
is no room for alterations, dearie."

"Well, I like to see it as it used to be. Now,
dear Granny Lindsay, I must tell you that I wanted
to come to see you the day after my arrival home;
but it was raining that day and for a week after
wards, and when it cleared off and David Lindsay
so kindly came to fetch me, he was told that I was
engaged. Well, I might have been doing some
thing, and probably was, but it was nothing that I
would not have willingly dropped for the sake of
coming to see you, if I had only been told that
David Lindsay had come for me; but I was not
told I was never told. I should never have known
if I had not met him by chance this morning."

"I know, I know, dearie, David told me. It was
ee good guardian s prudence, dearie, as I explained
to David. Ee must mind ? ee guardian, dearie, and
be guided and governed by him until ? ee comes
of a proper age, little lady, and all the more must
ee submit eeself to him who stands in a father s
place, because ? ee has no mother, dearie," said the
dame, speaking conscientiously and affectionately.

"Ah," thought the poor girl, "if she knew how
he frightens and distresses me, she would not say
that! I wonder if I could tell her? No, because
I could not explain ! How could I explain? There
is nothing to explain."

With a sigh Gloria turned from her perplexed
thoughts to the pleasant task before her.

She lifted both bundles from the floor to the
table. She untied and opened one, and displayed a
large double shawl of a fine black and white check,
saying :

GLORIA 155

"Now dee-ar Granny Lindsay, I know you love
old Scotland, where your forefathers came from,
and you would like any good thing that came from
Scotland. Now, I brought this from Edinboro for
you."

"Did ? ee, dearie? How beautiful it is! How
lovely and soft, and large, and warm it is! How
kind and thoughtful it was of ee to bring it to
the old woman! But that is nothing new. 7 Ee
was always good, my dearie. Now, I ll tell ee
how much I needed just such a shawl. My old
gray woolen one is worn quite thin and threadbare.
So ee sees how much good ee has done me, dearie."

"Oh, Granny Lindsay, I feel so grateful to you
for liking it so much. And look here oh, I hope
you will like these, too!" said the young girl, as
she unrolled the other bundle and displayed a dress
of shepherd s cloth of a deep blue shade 3 and two
woven underskirts of thick red flannel.

"Oh, dearie! What can I say to ee now for all
ee gracious gifts? What? The old woman is al
most dumb-struck, dearie, but her heart is full,"
said the dame, in a voice very low, and trembling
with the emotion that filled her aged eyes with
tears.

"Do you like them? Will they make you more
comfortable? Oh, I am so glad!"

"And here is something I got for David Lind
say. It is only a dozen Scotch pocket-handker
chiefs; but I have worked his name in the corners
with my hair. Will you give them to him from
his old playmate?"

"Yes, dearie, surely, if ee wishes it," replied the
dame, in a subdued and broken voice, for she could
now refuse nothing to the affectionate girl who had

156 GLORIA

remembered her, even in a foreign country, and
brought home comforts for her age.

"And now, dee-ar Granny Lindsay, I must leave
you. My half hour is up."

"I wish ee could stay all day, dearie."

"So do I ; I meant to stay, but but my guardian
came with me and spoiled all my plans."

" 7 Ee gardeen means ? ee well, dearie. Ee mustn t
rebel against his just authority."

"Good-by, dee-ar Granny Lindsay."

"Good-by, since >ee must go. The good Lord keep
? ee, dearie."

And so Gloria left the cottage, and walked
rapidly down to the boat, where she found her
guardian and the young fisherman waiting for her.

She entered and seated herself in the stern.

David Lindsay took up the oars and rowed
quickly to the boat-house, which they reached in a
few minutes.

Colonel de Crespigney handed his ward to the
steps, and with a cool "Thanks. Good-day," to
the young boatman, led her up the stairs and
through to the other side of the wall.

"I wish, uncle dear, that you would leave the key
in the lock always. It makes the place feel like
a prison to have the boat-house, which is the only
gateway and passage through the sea-wall, locked
up all the time."

"I will do anything you wish, my dear Gloria.
You have only to make your will known and it
shall be obeyed," replied the colonel.

"I thank you, dear uncle. And since you are so
kind, will you give orders that in future, whenever
David Lindsay comes to take me to see my dee-ar
old friend on the islet, I may promptly be informed

GLORIA 157

of his presence? inquired Gloria, with, a grave
earnestness that was more like a gracious command
than a request.

"My dearest, yes ! even that, if you make a point
of it."

"I do make a point of it."

"I sent the young man away, I should explain,
because I wished you quietly rid of him."

"Kid of David Lindsay, uncle ! Why should I bo
rid of him?"

"Gloria, I appreciate your need of a mother s
guidance; but is it possible that you have no in
tuitions to direct you?" gravely and sadly inquired
the colonel.

"If by intuitions, uncle, you mean inward teach
ings, yes. I have them ; they are, perhaps, the best,
if not the only instructions I have ; and from them.
I learn to understand, respect, and trust him
David Lindsay more than I can any other human
being, except, perhaps, his grandmother and
yourself."

"His grandmother and myself! Thank you, my
dear," said the colonel, wincing.

Gloria laughed. She very seldom laughed, but
when she did the silver cadence of her laughter
was like the shiver of silver bells, a delight to hear.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I beg your pardon, uncle!
I should have said the Emperor Napoleon and your
self ; only, unfortunately, I am not intimate enough
with his imperial majesty to know whether I re
spect him or not."

"Nonsense, Gloria. Be serious, my child. You
may respect this young man, who has grown up on
the estate; you may understand and respect him
in his proper place, as much as you please; but if

158 GLORIA

you make a companion of Mm, who is to under
stand you? not to ask, who is to respect you, my
dear?"

"Uncle!" exclaimed Gloria, flushing to the very
edges of her radiant hair. "Uncle! Is it making
a companion of David Lindsay to have him row me
in a boat where I wish to go?"

"Yes, Gloria, decidedly so, when the boat is his
own and he takes you to his own home."

"How dreadfully you put the case, uncle!" ex
claimed the girl, crimson with humiliation.

"I put it truly, dear Gloria," answered the
colonel, pursuing his advantage unsparingly. "I
put it truly. You will injure yourself irreparably
by such eccentric unconventionality. My poor
child, it is your mother who should instruct you
in all these matters, not a profane heathen of a
man; only unfortunately you have no mother, and
so you must even be guided by so poor a counsellor
as myself."

"I do not see what harm can come of my going
to see Dame Lindsay in her grandson s boat."

"No, you do not see; but others will, my child,
and they will criticise you. Objectionable attach
ments have been formed and improper marriages
contracted before now between ladies of rank and
men of low degree, and you "

"Sir! I PROTEST against this talk!" she indig
nantly interrupted. "To whom do your remarks
point? To me? To David Lindsay? Do you dare
to suppose, Colonel de Crespigney, that I should
ever dream that he would ever think of oh ! what
an odious thought is in your mind ! Never do you
dare, sir, to hint such a thing to me again !"

GLORIA 159

"I hope never to have the occasion, my dear,"
coolly replied the colonel.

"Detestable, revolting, abhorrent, odions! Oh!
that you should dare to hint such a humiliation
to me! I can never forgive you for it, Colonel de
Crespigney! I feel more, much more than of
fended! I feel insulted, dishonored, humiliated!
I do !" cried Gloria, vehemently.

But in all her indignation there was no scorn of
David Lindsay, or of his humble calling; for in
her innocent and loyal way she loved and respected
her old playmate, even as she did his aged relative
on the islet. It was the hypothesis of "an objec
tionable attachment" and "an improper marriage"
at which she revolted. And if, instead of a poor,
uncultivated young fisherman, the most accom
plished prince on earth had been in question, she
would have felt equally offended.

They had now reached the steps leading up to
the portico of the front door.

Colonel de Crespigney paused there, and with
his hand resting on one of the iron posts, he in
quired :

"Well, shall I give the orders you requested me
to issue? Shall I say that the young fisherman
must be admitted to your presence whenever he
may come here and ask to see you?"

"No! On your soul!" impetuously answered the
girl. "No ! You have killed David Lindsay ! You
have murdered the harmless playmate of my happy
childhood ! I shall never, never see him more ! He
is dead and buried !"

" Requiescat in pace replied the colonel
solemnly, lifting his hat.

160 GLORIA

Gloria passed him, opened the front door, and
fled up into the safety of her room.

Her "intuitions" warned the motherless child to
avoid a tete-d-tdte with Colonel de Crespigney.

CHAPTER XII

HOPELESS LOVE

He deemed that time, he deemed that pride
Had quenched, at length, his boyish flame,

Nor knew, till seated by her side,
His heart in all save hope the same.

BYRON.

MEANWHILE David Lindsay had returned to his
grandmother s cottage, his soul filled with the im
age of the lovely girl he had just landed on the
promontory.

"I shall go mad if it continues much longer, he
groaned. "Yes, it will craze me! If I could only
escape and fly to new places and scenes that would
not remind me of her so constantly, so bitterly!
But I cannot leave my grandmother, who has no
one but me. I must stay, though I am bound to the
rack. I must see my angel and not open my lips
in adoration ! I must suffer and not utter a cry !
Why, it would insult her to tell her I love her ! And
yet in our innocent childhood she has set by me
hours reading out of the same books. She kindled
a soul under the poor fisher lad s rough bosom ! a
soul to love and to suffer the anguish of a lost
Heaven in the loss of her. Oh, my little angel, did

GLORIA 161

you know what you were doing? Oh, my little angel,
my little angel, who am I that I should dare to love
you? A poor, rude fisherman, to whom you came
as a messenger from heaven to inspire him with in
telligent life, with a soul to love and suffer. Oh!
my darling, you fill my life! You are my life! I
see your bright face shining in the darkness of my
room at night. I hear your sweet voice ringing in
the silence! What shall I do? Ah, Heaven, what
shall I do? If I could ship on one of these schoon
ers that touch here sometimes, and if I could go to
new scenes where I should never meet her again, I
might conquer this madness. But that is impossi
ble at present. I must not fly from duty. I must
stay here and meet whatever fate may have in store
for me, and that is insanity or death, I think. Oh !
I fear, I fear that I shall go mad some day, and in
my madness tell her how I love her! And then
the deluge!"

So absorbed was the poor lad s soul in his love
and his woe, that it was a purely mechanical and
unconscious work to row back to the islet, secure
his boat, and walk up to the cot.

He did not "come to himself" until he had run
his head against the door.

His grandmother opened it, smiled, and said:

"Come in, David, and see what the little lady has
left here for me and for you."

He started and entered the cottage.

Fortunately for him, the dim eyes of age did not
perceive his strong emotion.

"Sit ee down, David, and look. Here are two
ribbed flannel petticoats, such as couldn t be got in
this country for love nor money. And here is a navy
blue shepherd s cloth, and a fine large double plaid

162 GLORIA

shawl. Look at em, David, lad! But Lor , men
don t know anything about women s wear. Well,
then, look ? ee here. Here is your present, David
a dozen lovely, large, fine white linen handkerchiefs,
every one of them marked with your full name by
her own hand, and with her own golden hair, David
with the child s own golden hair."

"Give them to me !" cried the young man, eagerly
catching the parcel from her hand, looking around
like some wild animal, with prey that he feared
would be snatched from him, and then running up
the narrow stairs that led to his own loft.

"What s come to the poor lad?" cried the old
woman, gazing after him. "The Lord defend him
from being taken with love!"

Meantime David Lindsay had scrambled up into
his own little den.

It was a poor place, with only a leaning roof meet
ing in a peak overhead, with hardly room enough
to stand upright, with bare walls, bare floor, and
only oDe small window of four panes in front, which
opened on hinges.

It contained a rude but clean bed, covered with
a blue and white patchwork quilt, and one chest
that stood under the front window, and one shelf,
on which stood Gloria s precious books. He sat
down on the chest, for there was no other seat, and
opened his parcel of handkerchiefs, and examined
them one by one. He saw his own name on each,
worked in minute golden letters, formed of Gloria s
own radiant hair. He pressed each to his lips, to
his heart.

"Oh, more precious than all the treasures of
Hindostan s mines are these to me," he murmured
"her own sacred hair, her own hallowed hands

GLORIA 163

work ! Oh, my angel, my augel, no word suits you
but this angel. I have this much of you, at least,
and I will never part with it while I live while I
live and then, afterwards, beyond this world, may
there not be some realms of bliss where we may
meet, as we met in guileless childhood and love,
without a thought of any barrier of rank between
us?"

This, and much more, murmured the young man
to himself, as he pressed the handkerchiefs to his
heart, his lips and burning forehead.

But the voice of his aged relative recalled him
to his duty. With fond superstition he folded one
handkerchief and put it in his bosom, with her
bright hair next his heart. The others he folded
carefully and put in his chest. Then he went below
to hew wood and fetch water for the needs of the
little home.

Gloria did not meet her uncle until the dinner
hour, when her short, impulsive resentment melted
away before the mournful, even meek, reserve of his
manner.

After dinner she went into the drawing-room, sat
down at the piano, and played for him us usual,
until the hour of retiring.

The next morning, after their breakfast, as she
turned to go up stairs, he called to her :

"Gloria, my dear, will you not come into the li
brary and sit with me, as usual?"

"No, thanks, uncle dear. I have a letter to write
to Aunt Agrippina."

"Can you not write it at one of the library
tables?"

"I would rather go up into my room, uncle."

"But why?"

164 GLORIA

"Because well I would rather."

"Are you afraid of ine, Gloria?" he inquired, very
mournfully.

She hesitated for a moment, and then answered,
firmly :

"Yes, I am."

"But why should you be?"

"I don t know," she answered.

"Then that is a most unjust and unreasonable
fear of yours, for which you can assign no cause, my
child."

She looked down and made no answer.

"Do you not yourself think so, Gloria?"

"Yes, no ; I don t know. Let me go up stairs now,
please, uncle," she said, in growing distress.

"I do not hinder you, my child. You are as free
as air. Go," he said.

Eelieved to be free, she ran up stairs ; but happen
ing to look down as she turned around on the land
ing, she saw him standing still, looking so lonely
and miserable that her heart reproached her for
selfishness, if not for cruelty. She paused and hesi
tated for a moment and then ran down again and
said:

"Uncle dear, if you want me, I will come in and
sit with you. Of course I can write my letter just
as well on the library table. Do you want me?"

"My child, I always want you. Every moment of
my life I want you," he answered in a low tone as
he opened the library for her to enter.

She had a little rosewood writing-desk of her own
on one of the tables.

He went and opened it for her and placed a chair
before it.

As soon as she had seated herself he went and sat

GLORIA 165

down at his own reading stand and assumed an air
of melancholy reserve that he knew would touch
her heart and calm her fears.

"I must be very patient and very cautious in deal
ing with my dear, my birdling, if I would ever win
her to my bosom," he said to himself.

And from that day for many days he was very
guarded in his manner to his sensitive ward, main
taining always a mournfully affectionate yet some
what reserved demeanor.

Gloria was not quite reassured. Her confidence,
once so rudely shaken, could not be quite firmly
re-established. She continued to decline a tete-a-
tete with him whenever she could do so without
rudeness or unkindness. She walked out more than
usual. The weather continued to be very fine for
the season.

Christmas Eve was a most glorious day. There
was not a cloud in all the sky. The sun shone down
with dazzling splendor from the deep blue heavens.
The ripples of the sea flashed and sparkled like
liquid sapphires. The woods on the main glowed
in the light.

The scene was too tempting.

Gloria put on her fur jacket and hood and walked
forth to the "Neck."

She found the tide at its lowest ebb and the road
to the main high and dry.

She set oft to walk across it. It was the first
time she had ever done so. The "Neck," indeed, was
a natural bridge of rock connecting the promontory
to the main and affording an excellent roadway
when the tide was low, but quite impassable, being
at least six feet under water when the tide was high.

It was very low now and the path was very clear.

166 GLORIA

Gloria walked on, so inspired by the glory and
gladness of the sun, the sky, the sea, the woods that
her spirits soared like a bird, and, like a bird, broke
forth in song.

She sang as she walked. The way was long but
joyous with light and beauty, even though the sea
son was near mid-winter.

At length she reached the main and bent her step
to the gorgeous woods, still wearing their regal
autumn dress.

Gloria plunged into their depths and rambled
and reveled in their delightful solitudes. The song
birds had flown farther south, yet the air seemed
full of jubilant music. Was it in the air or in her
own spirit? She could not tell. She was so gay
and glad ! She wandered on and on, tempted by
vistas of crimson, golden, and purple avenues, more
graceful in form than classic arches.

At length she spied, at some distance off, in the
deepest depths of the forest, a scene like a confla
gration a cluster of trees burning, glowing and
sparkling like fire in the rays of the sun that struck
down upon their tops.

Fascinated by the vision, she made her way to
ward it, and found a clump of holly trees, thick with
bright scarlet berries.

"Oh, I must have some of these to decorate the
house to-night," she said, as she began to pull those
that were in her reach. But when she had plucked
all that hung low, she found that she had not
enough for her purpose.

"I cannot get any more, so I had better take
these home and come back again and bring Laban

GLORIA 167

to climb the trees for me, and get enough from the
top branches."

With this resolve she turned and retraced her
steps, but soon lost herself in the pathless woods,
and wandered about for hours trying to find her
way out of them. She had no fear whatever. She
was sure that she should emerge safely some time
or other. She only felt some little haste to get home
time enough to bring Laban back for the holly.

At length her confidence was justified. She
caught a glimpse of the sea through a thinner
growth of the woods, and, walking toward it, soon
came out on the bank above the "Neck." She de
scended quickly, and began to cross.

No one in that neighborhood would have ven
tured to go over the "Neck" at such a time. It was
in pure ignorance that Gloria did it.

She did not even notice how much the Neck
had narrowed since she crossed it four hours before,
when the tide was at its lowest ebb, and was even
then turning. It had been coming in ever since,
and now there was but about four feet width of
the road left in the middle of the Neck abundant
space for a foot-path if it should not narrow too
rapidly.

Gloria had not a thought of danger when she set
out to recross the Neck.

She walked on, singing as she went, and if a wave
higher than usual dashed quite across her path,
why, it fell back immediately, only wetting her
shoes and skirts a little.

She went on, singing, while the glad waves
danced up each side her road, coming nearer and
nearer, narrowing her path.

Still she went on. singing, having to stop some*

168 GLORIA

times when her path would be entirely covered by a
rising wave, and wait till it had fallen back.

Then again she went on, singing, ever singing,
until she reached a spot about midway between the
main and the promontory, when a wave, higher and
stronger than before, struck her, staggered her, and
nearly threw her down. Then for a moment she
quailed, and ceased to sing. But the next instant
the wave had receded and left a narrow path clear
before her.

Then she hurried on again, not singing now, but
with an awful consciousness of danger upon her;
an awful prevision of the world beyond this, which
her spirit might reach before her body should touch
the shore.

Another higher, stronger wave came rising and
roaring, and struck her down. It receded instantly,
and she struggled to her feet, half stunned, stran
gled, and blinded.

Soon the path was entirely under water, and she
had to wade in half knee-deep, and with that pre
vision, awful, holy, sweet, of being on the threshold
of the other life.

"Mother, mother, if I must go, if I must go, come
and meet me. I m afraid, oh, Fm afraid of the
great dark !" was her mute prayer, as another grand
wave, howling like some furious beast of prey,
reared itself above and threw her down.

Once more, as it fell back howling, she struggled
up to her feet, more stunned, strangled, blinded,
and dazed than before, and toiling for dear life,
waded on knee-deep in water. Her limbs were fail
ing, her head was dizzy, her senses were leaving
her.

"I must go I am going. Oh, Lord Jesus ! Thou

GLORIA 169

who art the Resurrection and the Life/ raise me!
save me !" she breathed, in a strange half trance, in
which she saw the heavens opened.

And at that moment the last wave struck her
down, seized her and whirled her away.

CHAPTER XIII

ON A STRANGE BED

Will she again,
From that death-like repose,
When those sealed eyes unclose,
Awake to pain? ANON.

IT was late in the afternoon of the same day that
saw Gloria de la Vera swept away by the tide.

In the cosy cottage on the sandy islet, old Dame
Lindsay sat over the bright, open w r ood fire, knit
ting busily ; the tea-kettle hung over the blaze, sing
ing merrily; the covered "spider" sat upon the
hearth, emitting a spicy odor of baking ginger
bread; the black "pussy" was coiled up in one cor
ner, and the white puppy in the other.

The tea-table stood in the middle of the floor, set
for two persons, gay with the best cups and saucers
on the bright japanned waiter, and tempting with
plates full of delicately sliced ham and cold bread,
and a pretty print of fresh butter.

Dame Lindsay at length rolled up her knitting
and laid it aside on the mantel -shelf ; took off her
spectacles and put them in their case, and that into

170 GLORIA

her pocket, then picked up the little iron tongs and
lifted the lid from the spider to examine the prog
ress of her cakes, found them doing well, and cov
ered them again.

Finally she went to the window and looked out
across the sea to the shore where the wooded hills
rolled backward to the western horizon, behind
which the setting sun was dropping out of sight.

"Well, now, I do wonder what can keep David?
He promised to be back before sunset, and he never
broke a promise nor missed an appointment before,"
she said, as she held one hand above her eyes and
scanned the track of waters between the main shore
and the little landing-place on the islet.

She watched until the sun had set, the faint after
glow had faded from the sky and sea, and the short
winter twilight of the shortest days had darkened
into night.

"Something has happened. I trust in the Lord
it is nothing ill," she said, as she left the window
and went to the fireplace, and lighted the two home-
dipped tallow candles that stood on the mantel
piece.

She did not pull down the blue window blind;
she left it up, saying to herself :

"He shall see the light of home to cheer him
across the dark sea, poor lad."

She had scarcely said so much when the sound of
hurrying footsteps smote her ears, and before she
had time to cross the room, the door was violently
pushed open, and David Lindsay strode into the
house, bareheaded, with disordered liuir, haggard
face and starting eyes; wearing nothing but a wet
and frozen shirt and trowsers, and bearing in his

GLORIA 171

arms a girl s lifeless form, wrapped closely in his
own great-coat.

"Gloria is dead ! She is dead ! I saw her drowned
before my eyes! I saw her drowned before I could
reach her! My darling! My darling! My angel!
Oh, my little angel !" he groaned, as he bore her to
the bed, laid her on it and dropped on his knees,
burying his head beside her.

"Father of mercies! how did it happen?" cried
the old dame, clasping her hands in anguish, as she
came up.

"Oh, don t ask me now ! Try to recover her, try I
Oh, she must not! shall not die!" exclaimed the
young man, starting like a maniac from his kneel
ing posture, and staring around him with a wild
manner, half prayerful, half defiant, wholly insane.

"Yes, we must try! We must never give up,"
quickly replied Dame Lindsay, who in her long life
as a fisherman s daughter, wife and mother, had
had varied experience in drowned persons, resusci
tated or buried.

And fast as age and infirmities would permit, she
scrambled up the narrow stairs that led to the loft
and quickly drew the blankets and mattress from
David s bed and rolled them down to the room be
low.

Then she followed them in their descent, and
straightened the mattress on the floor, and laid the
blankets over it.

"Now lift her up, and lay her here, David, and
then leave the room. I must take off her wet
clothes, wind her in a warm blanket, and roll her.
That I must do without your help," said the a ame,
with a calm authority that would have compelled
obedience from any one.

172 GLORIA

But the young uian indeed was so stupefied and
distracted by anguish and despair, that he was more
than willing to be led or driven.

Moaning and groaning in bitterest woe, he lifted
the lifeless form and laid it on its right side on the
blanket over the mattress on the floor, and then
went up stairs and threw himself down near the
landing to pray with all his soul for her revival,
and to listen with all his senses for any murmur
of her returning life that might reach him there.

Meanwhile the dame rolled the drowned girl over
on her face, with her wrist bent under her forehead
to raise it, and then leaving her so for a moment,
went and hung a large blanket over several chairs
before the fire. Then she removed the wet raiment
from the victim, and laid down the hot blanket, and
rolled her over and wrapped her in it, and rolled
and rubbed until some good results began to appear,
and her own strength to wane.

Then she called to the anxious watcher above:

"Come down, David, and help me now. There is
hope, my lad. There is hope! 7

"Oh, thank the Lord ! Thank the Lord ! From
this time forth I will live to the Lord !" exclaimed
the young man in an earnest outburst of gratitude,
too deep for gladness, as he hurried down the
stairs.

"Ah ! my boy, I said there was hope, not certain
ty," sighed the dame.

"If there is hope, there is certainty. If the Lord
is not mocked/ neither does he mock his children.
I have prayed, oh! how I have prayed! And the
answer is, there is hope! So there is certainty!"
exclaimed David Lindsay, as he dropped on his

GLORIA 173

knees before the prostrate form that lay wound in
the blanket on the mattress.

"You know what to do, David. Lay your hand
between her shoulders and continue to move her
gently to and fro, if you wish to save her life.
When I get the bed ready we will lay her in it," said
the old woman, as she spread more blankets to heat
before the fire.

When they were ready she put one over the bot
tom sheet in the bed, and called her grandson to
lift the precious burden just as it was and lay it
there.

When he had obeyed her, she spread another
warm blanket over the form, which now began to
quiver slightly as from pain.

"She lives! Oh, thank Heaven, she does live!"
cried David.

"Easy, lad! Easy! There is more hope, but no
certainty yet. I could not feel any pulse, as I held
her wrist just now," said Dame Lindsay, cautiously.

In mad haste, David thrust his hand amid the
wrappings and found and felt the delicate wrist.

"It beats ! It beats ! Her pulse does beat ! I can
scarcely feel it, it is so small but it beats!" he
cried.

"I hope it may be so," said the dame, who had
taken a little brandy from a small bottle that she
kept for emergencies and put it into a mug with
some boiling water, sugar and spice.

When the highly stimulating cordial was ready,
she brought it to the bedside and looked at the face
of the girl.

That face had changed from its white repose to
a look of helpless, intense suffering.

GLORIA

"You see ske is recovering!" exclaimed David,
triumphantly.

"Yes, I see she is, poor child!" replied the dame,
as with a small teaspoon she tried to pass a little of
the spiced brandy, drop by drop, between the pale
and writhen lips.

Much has been falsely said and written about the
agony of death, when every doctor knows that
death, in itself, is no agony at all ; and every true
Christian feels that it is a release from all pain, a
delicious falling asleep, for a few hours, to awake
in the glad and glorious surprise of the higher and
better life.

But no one who has not experienced it knows, or
can know, the insufferable anguish of resuscitation
from apparent death. The almost stagnant blood
beginning to circulate again through nearly col
lapsed veins and arteries, inflicts tortures upon
every nerve tortures unheard of in the cruelest in
quisition. Red-hot needles seem to be piercing
every nerve of the body and pore of the skin. It is
an agony that even the torpor of the brain does not
overcome. And the victim writhes and moans with
anguish, while quite unconscious of his condition
or surroundings. He only feels ; he knows nothing.

As soon as the sufferer, struggling through pain
back to life, began to breathe more freely, Dame
Lindsay, without speaking to her, or in any way dis
turbing her, quietly administered a composing
drink that soon sent her into a sweet, natural sleep.
Then she placed bottles of hot water to her feet and
between her shouders, covered her up very warmly,
and hung a clean quilt before the bed to shade her
from the light of the fire.

"Now, lad, she is comfortable, and when she

GLORIA 175

wakes up, whether to-night or to-morrow morning,
she will be all right. She will want nourishment
the very first thing. Fortunately, I have got that
piece of beef ee brought for to-morrow s dinner. I
will cut the lean pieces from it and make some beef
tea, and keep it by the fire ready for her. But now
carry the mattress and things back up stairs and
come back to ee supper. Ee must be hungry by

this time, and Eh? Why there ee stands in

ee wet clothes all this time, and I taking no notice.
Go change em, boy! Go change em this minute,
or ee ll get ee death of cold. Eh ! to think I should
a forgot ee ! But the lass was so near dead ! Go,
lad, go!"

"Don t be uneasy, grandmother. I don t catch
cold from sea water ; and now I am so fired with joy
and gratitude that I couldn t take cold," said the
young man, as he cleared the floor of bedding and
carried the bundle up stairs.

Meanwhile, the dame put the supper hot ginger
bread and all on the table; and by the time she
had finished the work, David came down in dry
clothing to join her.

She refrained from questioning him until he had
got through with his evening meal, and she had
cleared away the table.

Then, when they were seated together before the
cheerful fire, Dame Lindsay knitting, and occasion
ally watching the saucepan which contained the
beef tea she had made and set to simmer on the
coals, and David busy with a bit of bone carving in
his hand, the old woman said :

"Now, lad, tell me how all this happened."

"I was in the boat coming from the main when I
happened to look towards the Kogues Neck, and

176 GLORIA

there I saw some one attempting to cross. The pas
senger was about half way over and the tide was
rising rapidly. I knew, of course, whoever it might
be, could never succeed in reaching either shore,
but would certainly be overtaken by the tide and
drowned unless I could reach the Neck in time for
rescue."

"And ee didn t know it was she?" inquired the
dame.

"No, I did not even know whether it was a man
or a woman. I could only see that it was some one.
But I turned and rowed as fast as I could for the
Neck. Then I saw it was a woman, and I rowed
faster than ever ; for the tide was so high even then
that she could scarcely keep her feet."

"Poor lass! Go on, David."

"I pulled on the oars as hard as I could and made
the best speed; I shouted to her to take courage.
She did not seem to hear or see me; but, oh, grand
mother, when I got within a few yards of that spot
I recognized her in the same instant that I saw her
whelmed off and whirled away ! Indeed, for a mo
ment, I seemed to have lost my senses. But soon I
rallied and rowed to the spot where I had seen her
disappear. Then I threw off my overcoat and jacket
to be ready, and I watched to see her rise. I knew
she would rise near the Neck, or be thrown upon it
by the returning wave, so there I watched. I saw
her rise at last. I threw myself into the sea, dived
as she went down again, caught her raiment,
dragged her to the surface, and drew her toward
the boat. I had some difficulty in recovering the
boat, and getting into it with my precious burden.
She was quite insensible and cold, but I wrapped
her in my jacket and overcoat, and laid her down in

GLORIA 177

the bottom of the boat on her right side, with her
breast and face turned downward, and her wrists
bent under her forehead, and I kept one of my
hands between her shoulders, moving her gently
from time to time as we do to recover the drowned,
you know while I rowed as well as I could with
the other hand, and so reached our landing at last.
I brought her here because it was so much nearer
than her own home. But, oh, granny, when I lifted
her out of the boat I thought she was dead !"

"So she would have been, lad, if it hadn t been
for ee care," said the dame.

"And have I, by the Lord s help, saved her life?
Are you sure she will take no fatal harm from that
ice-cold plunge in the sea?" inquired the young
man, in a painful doubt, strangely inconsistent with
his expressed confidence at a less hopeful time.

Before replying to his question the dame went to
the bedside and examined her patient, then she
came back and said :

"Yes, lad, ee has certainly saved the little lady s
life. She will take no harm now. She is in a sound
sleep and a gentle perspiration. She is perfectly
safe now. So ee may rest satisfied."

" Satisfied, dear granny !" exclaimed the youth,
with a look of radiant happiness on his face. " Sat
isfied? Why, I am overjoyed, crowned, blessed! I
would rather have saved her precious life than to
have won all the wealth, fame, power and glory of
this world !"

"I believe ee, lad! I believe ee!"

"But, what do I say? The glory of this world?
Why, I would rather have saved her sacred life than
have won Heaven !"

"Eh! Stop there, lad! Ee>s growing profane!

178 GLORIA

Is that ee gratitude to the Lord? Stop at the glory
of this world, lad, and do not compare any earthly
good with the heavenly blessedness," said the dame,
laying down her knitting and placing her spectacles
high on her cap that she might look him straight in
the face with her earnest blue eyes.

"I did not mean to be profane," said David,
meekly.

The good woman resumed her work, and David
took up his own, and they worked in silence until
the hour for retiring drew near, when Dame Lind
say finally rolled up her knitting, took off her spec
tacles and put them both away, and said :

"Now, David, read a chapter from the Word, and
then get ee to bed, lad."

"And you, granny? Where will you sleep?" in
quired the young man.

"I shall sit in my old arm-chair by the fire as long
as I can keep up, and then I shall lie down on the
bed beside the lassie, so as to wake readily if she
should stir."

"Don t sit up too long, dear granny. You are not
able."

"Don t ee fear, Davie; I ll lie down when I grow
weary."

David brought the Bible and seated himself at
the table opposite his aged relative, and read parts
of the first and second chapters of Matthew, record
ing the genealogy and birth of our Saviour. Then
the dame folded her hands and reverently prayed
for both, that they might be able to receive the Lord
in their affections in that sacred Christmas season,
and be led by Him forever.

"Now, David, lad, get ee to bed," she said, as she
arose from her knees.

GLORIA 179

"If I can be of any use during the night, will you
call me, granny?"

"Ay, lad, be sure of that."

Then David kissed her withered hand and went
up to his loft; but instead of going into bed, he
placed himself on the floor with his feet through
the trap-door, resting on the highest step, and there
he sat and watched and listened until Christmas
Eve passed into Christmas Morn.

About midnight he heard his grandmother rise
from her chair and cross the room, to lie down be
side the sleeping girl.

Then he bent his head and called:

"Granny! granny!"

"Ay, lad, what is it?"

"Can I do anything at all?"

"Nay, boy. Get ? ee back to bed."

She did not suspect that he had not been in bed.

He resumed his watch and kept it up until day
light. He scarcely heard a sound from below, ex
cept an occasional slight sigh, or motion from the
old woman, who, like all aged persons, was a very
light sleeper.

When morning dawned, David heard his grand
mother rise and open the windows.

Then he called down the stairs once more :

"Granny "

"Ay, lad."

"Can I help you now?"

"Ay, lad, put on ? ee clothes and come down."

David had not taken off his clothes, and there
fore had not to put them on. He instantly descended
the narrow stairs and stood before his grandmother.

"I never knew ? ee to dress so quick, lad," she
said.

180 GLORIA

"That was because I was not undressed. What
can I do first, granny?"

"Ay, indeed ! Ee s been sitting up all night ! It
was a useless loss of rest, Davie, but w< x ll meant.
Take eeself off now to the shed and bring in some
wood, lad."

The young man went out to do her bidding, and
soon returned with an armful of brown hickory
logs, which he laid upon the fire.

Then he took the tea-kettle out and filled it from
the cistern and brought it back and hung it over the
blaze.

Every movement of the old woman and the young
man was made quietly and noiselessly, so as not to
disturb the calm sleeper, who as yet gave no signs
of waking.

"Now, lad, I ll leave ee here to watch the kettle.
Take it off as soon as it boils, and don t forget to
turn the johnny cake," said Dame Lindsay, as she
took her fresh sweet pail and went out to milk the
cow, a duty she would never allow David to do for
her. Indeed, the act of setting a man or boy to
milk would have shocked her ideas of the fitness
of things. She would have thought it an insult to
the cow.

When she had closed the door behind her, David
Lindsay gave a glance to the fireplace, to see that
all was right there, and then he went on tiptoe to
the side of the bed and gazed reverently on "the
sleeping beauty."

The quilt that had been hung in front to shield
her eyes from the ruddy blaze of the fire on the
previous night, when repose was so necessary to her
shattered nervous system, w r as now removed to give
her more air ; for the time had come when it would

GLORIA 181

be well for her to awake. The bed had been straight
ened into perfect order and the white counterpane
drawn up, so that only the lovely face, laying with
its right cheek on the pillow, and forehead towards
the front of the bed, was visible. The golden hair
had been drawn away from the nape of the neck and
carried up over the pillow, where it lay a shining
mass of curls. A very pathetic face it was, with
the tender eyes half shut, the sweet lips half closed.
Her sleep looked like the "deep deliciousness of
death"; though had it been really that, it might
have been said with equal truth that it looked like
the sweetest sleep.

David Lindsay sank on his knees beside the bed
and gazed on the beautiful, unconscious face turned
towards him, as he never would have dared to gaze
had those features been instinct with wakeful in
telligence. And then, out of the fullness of his
heart, he began to murmur words of passionate love
to those sealed ears that he never would have ven
tured to utter had they been listening words of
reverential, worshiping love, that for their inco
herence and extravagance could scarcely bear rep
etition here. He lifted a tress of the floating golden
hair and pressed it to his lips, while his tears fell
thick and heavily.

"Why do I love you?" he sighed at length. "I
know it is vain, and worse than vain ! I am but a
clod of the earth! And you, what are you? I
scarcely know. Something so pure, so precious,
so sacred, that it seems sacrilege to touch this halo
around your head, these peerless tresses. Yet I love
you ! I love you ! Clod as I am, I love you, oh ! un
attainable blessing! I might as well love a queen
on her throne, the sun in the heavens, the moon, or

182 GLORIA

any glorious, infinitely distant star! Oh, Gloria!
Gloria ! Bright seraph, why did you come and shine
on this poor earth that I am, to quicken it with a
living soul to wake it to such love, such suffering,
such despair?"

Down went his head again upon the side of the
bed, while his bosom heaved with heavy sobs, and
his tears fell like rain.

"David Lindsay."

Her sweet voice fell on his ears like a benediction.

He lifted his head. She was awake, and gazing
gently on his troubled face.

"What is the matter, David Lindsay? What has
happened?" she inquired, with a look of sympathy
and deep perplexity.

"Nothing ; I mean yes, something has happened,
but it is well over, and, oh, how I thank heaven to
hear you speak again !" he said, with an effort to
recover his self-control, as he arose from his knees.

"What? Is the little lady awake at last? Well,
it is time. It would not have been good for her to
have slept longer," said the voice of Dame Lindsay,
who had just entered the room and approached the
bed.

"She has just this instant opened her eyes, and
has scarcely yet collected her thoughts, I think,"
said the young man, in a low tone, as he gave place
to the old woman, and went out of the house to con
ceal from her the traces of his strong emotion.

"How does ? ee feel, dearie?" inquired the dame,
bending over the revived girl.

"I don t think I quite know," answered Gloria,
with a bewildered look, as she passed her hand over
her forehead, as if to clear away some mental mist

GLORIA 183

of forgetful ness, and opened her eyes, half raised
herself in bed and gazed around her.

"Does ee know nie, dearie?"

"Oh, yes, dee-ar, good Dame Lindsay, but I don t
remember "

"Does ee know where ee is, darling?"

"To be sure I do know this dee-ar old cottage, but
I can t remember coming here at all !"

"As how should ee, indeed, darling? Ee knowed
nothing about it! Now, don t talk any more, and
don t even think, if ? ee can help it; but lie still
until I bring ee some strong beef tea to nourish ee
and give strength," said the good woman, as she
laid the girl s head back on the pillow and drew
the counterpane up to her chin.

But a change came over Gloria s face. Dark mem
ory, like a cloud, arose and overcast it ; yet she mis
took the reality for a dream, and she shuddered as
she said :

"Oh, dee-ar Granny Lindsay, don t go yet! Give
me your hand, and let me hold you fast! I am
frightened I am frightened "

"What is the matter with ? ee, dearie?" inquired
the sympathetic woman, as she gave her hand,
which the girl clasped spasmodically, and held fast.

"Oh, Granny, Granny Lindsay, I have had such a
horrid, horrid nightmare! I dreamed that I was
drowning, and, oh, I saw and felt it all, as if it had
been real ! Oh, Granny Lindsay, don t leave me yet,
but tell me what has happened, and how I came to
be here? Have I been ill a long time? and de
lirious? I have heard of people being so ill and de
lirious that they could know nothing of the passage
of time. Uncle was so, you know, after auntie died.
Have I been so long?"

184 GLORIA

"No, dearie, ee couldn t talk so fast, if ee had
been/ replied the dame, with a smile.

"Then what has happened, and how is it that I
am here instead of at home?"

" Ee has had a ducking in the sea, lassie, no
worse. Ee was swept off the Rogue s Neck by the
tide, when ? ee was too late in trying to cross, and
ee might have "

"Oh, yes, yes, yes, it was no nightmare, but an
awful fact!" murmured the girl to herself, as she
pressed her hands upon her face.

"And ee might have been drowned sure enough if
Davie hadn t seen ee from his boat and picked ee
up, dearie."

"David Lindsay?" breathed the girl.

"Ay, dearie, David Lindsay. He picked ee up
and brought ee home here, because it was so much
nearer than the hall, ee knows, dearie."

"David Lindsay saved my life!" murmured the
girl, dreamily.

"Ay, little lady, he did ; and so ee got no worse
harm than a cold ducking though indeed ee was
quite insensible, and seemed lifeless when ee was
brought here in the arms of Davie. But ee s all
right now, dearie."

"David Lindsay saved my life!" reiterated the
girl, dwelling fondly on the words, and on the
thought.

"Eh ! lass, surely yes, and we must thank the
Lord that ee w r as saved."

"Yes ; and David Lindsay, too ! Oh ! I am pleased
that it was he, my old playmate, and no other.
What will uncle say now?" muttered the girl, still
dreamily.

"Eh ! dearie, he w r ould say that ee ought to take

GLORIA 185

some nourishing food immediately. Ain t *ee hun
gry now, say?"

"Yes," promptly replied Gloria.

"Now ee knows all about it, ee ll not be afeard
to let me go?"

"Oh, no !" said Gloria, smiling; for she was every
moment growing better.

The dame brought her the beef tea and dry toast
from the fire, and made her take that first, saying :

" ? Ee shall have a cup of coffee or tea, whichever
? ee likes, presently; but this is the best for ee now."

Gloria obediently consumed all the beef tea and
dry toast, and relished both.

"Now I feel well ; but I think I would rather lie
here a few minutes longer, and not try to get up yet,
if you will let me, dee-ar Dame Lindsay."

"To be sure, little lady. Ee should lie there
quietly all the morning, and when ee rises should
rest quietly in the house for a day or two. Could
ee be satisfied to stay here till ? ee gets over the
shock?"

"Oh, yes, dee-ar Dame Lindsay, I was always so
happy when here with you. Oh, I wish there would
come a snow-storm, and I would be snow-bound here
for a long time. But, oh, poor uncle! Does he
know that David Lindsay saved my life?"

"No, dearie; there has been no time to tell him.
It is early in the morning yet, ee knows; but after
breakfast Davie must go and tell him that ee s
safe."

"And that I must stay here for a few days,"
added Gloria.

"Surely, dearie," replied the old woman.

At this moment the two were startled by a loud
knock.

186 GLORIA

Dame Lindsay got up to answer the summons, but
before she could cross the floor, the door was thrown
violently open and Colonel de Crespigney strode
into the room, looking pale, haggard, hurried, and
at least thirty years older than when we saw him
last.

CHAPTER XIV

DRIVEN TO DESPERATION

O, shut me nightly in a charnel house,
O er covered quite with dead men s rattling bones,
With reeking shanks, and yellow, chapless skulls ;
Or bid me go into a new-made grave
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud
Things that to hear them told have made me trem
ble

And I will do them without fear or doubt
To live unstained. SHAKESPEARE.

"I BEG your pardon for this sudden intrusion, but
I am suffering great the greatest anxiety!" he
began, casting his eyes around the room. "My
ward has been missing since yesterday. Have you
seen have you heard "

"She is safe, Colonel de Crespigney. She is quite
safe. She is here," answered Dame Lindsay, lead
ing the visitor around the headboard of the bed,
that had hitherto hidden the recumbent girl from
his sight.

"Gloria, my darling!" he exclaimed, as soon as,
his eyes fell upon her. "Heavens, what a fright you

GLORIA 187

have given us ! What insufferable tortures of anx
iety and suspense! And to find you here, and in
bed, too ! What does all this mean?" he demanded,
turning in more displeasure than gratitude to the
old dame.

"It means that the little lady, while trying to
walk across the Kogue s Neck, was overtaken by the
tide and swept off to sea, and was picked up by my
Davie, who happened to be out with his boat, and
who brought her here as to the nearest house," re
plied Dame Lindsay.

"What is all this that she tells me, Gloria?" in
quired the shocked colonel.

"The truth, uncle ! David Lindsay saved my life,"
said the girl, with a glow of gratitude and pride.

"A gallant deed, for which he shall be most lib
erally rewarded," said Colonel de Crespigney, as he
sank into the chair that Dame Lindsay had silently
placed for him at the side of the bed.

Gloria darted a glance full of scorn and indigna
tion at this speech. It fell harmlessly on the
colonel s unobservant head, and he repeated: "A
gallant deed, truly, of the young fisherman, and he
shall be munificently paid! But, my dear girl, how-
could you have been so imprudent as to cross the
main alone? Did you not know there was great
danger?"

"I did not care. I was weary of myself and every
body else! And now I am very glad I went, for
David Lindsay saved my life," said Gloria, luxuriat
ing over the words and the thought.

"I say it was a brave deed, for which he shall be
munificently rewarded," repeated the colonel ; "but
still, my darling, I think that it was a pity your
life should be risked for the sake of having it saved,

188 GLORIA

even by David Lindsay," lie added, with a little sar
casm.

"I think not! The risk and pain are compen
sated by the memory left behind a sweetness that
will last me all my days/ replied the girl, as a
strange tenderness of joy melted and irradiated her
face.

The colonel s brow grew dark. He did not speak
for a few moments ; when he did it was to say :

"My dear Gloria, we owe a deep debt of gratitude
to this good woman and her son or grandson, is
he? But we must not trespass on their kind hos
pitality. I am sure you must be sufficiently recov
ered to rise and dress and return with me to the
hall."

"Oh, no, sir, indeed she is not. She has been so
shaken by her shock. Take an old oman s word for
it, sir, she had better bide here a day or two," said
Dame Lindsay, speaking earnestly for her guest.

"Indeed, uncle, she is right. I need to stay here
where I am/ added Gloria.

"Will you have the kindness to withdraw for a
few moments and leave me alone with my ward? I
have something to say to her in private," said
Colonel de Crespigney, turning to the woman.

Dame Lindsay bent her head and went up into
the little loft, and improved her time there by mak
ing David s bed.

"Gloria, my dearest, I could not speak freely to
you in the presence of your humble hostess " be
gan the colonel ; but the willful girl impatiently in
terrupted him.

" Humble hostess, uncle? Why should Dame
Lindsay be called humble/ indeed? I call her my
honored hostess, in my own thoughts."

GLORIA 189

"Well, well, my little girl, call her what you will.
I shall not differ with you. But, my dear, I was
about to say that it is not fitting or proper that you
should remain here any longer."

"Why is it not fitting or proper, uncle?"

"Because this is the house of a young laboring
man, and while you are here you are his visitor."

"But I am his grandmother s guest," persisted
Gloria.

"No, my child, no ; the house is his, not his grand
mother s. The position is unfit, improper, indeli
cate. I wonder you do not see that it is so !"

"No, I do not see it. But if any one sees it, that
is enough. I cannot stay, of course. I will go home
with you, uncle."

"That is right, Gloria. That is right, my dearest
girl. I thank you, love, for your ready acquiescence
in my views and compliance with my wishes. As
for this young Lindsay, who is such a favorite
protege of yours and deservedly so, I must admit
he shall be well paid for the service he has ren
dered you. I will send him a check for a thousand
dollars to-morrow."

"Marcel !" exclaimed Gloria, lifting herself up
and looking him straight in the face, "if you do such
a thing as that I will never forgive you as long as I
live in this world!"

"Gloria, what on earth do you mean? Have you
gone crazy, child?"

"No, but I think you have !"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean just what I say, Colonel de Crespigney !
If you were to offer David Lindsay money for sav
ing my life, I would never speak to you again as
long as I should live on this earth !"

190 GLORIA

"But, my dear, unreasonable child, why should I
not do so?"

" Why? I wonder you, a gentleman and a sol
dier, you, a De Crespigney, cannot see why?" said
Gloria, harping a little upon his own words of a few
minutes past.

"I cannot see ; but if you or any one can, I should
like to be informed of the reason," said the colonel,
in the same spirit.

"Then I will tell you. Suppose it had fallen to
your lot to rescue Dame Lindsay from drowning,
and David Lindsay had offered you money, as much
as he could afford, in payment of your services,
what would you have thought? How would you
have felt?"

"My dearest Gloria, the cases differ totally," ex
claimed the colonel, with a flushed brow.

"They do not differ in one essential point, uncle,
and you know it, and feel it now, if you neither
knew nor felt it before. I will yield to your wishes
and return home with you to-day. But you must
not insult my preserver by offering him any sort of
reward for saving me. You may thank him, for
yourself and for me; but thank him as you would
thank General Stuart, or Doctor Battis, or any
other gentleman of your acquaintance, had either of
them rendered me the same inestimable service."

"My dear, absurd child, I do thank him more than
tongue can tell. I think the most practical way of
expressing my thanks would be to send him a check
for a round urn; but if you prefer that I should
take off my hat to him instead, why, I will do that."

"Yes, do that. Take off your hat to him. And,
now please to go to the foot of the stairs there and
call Granny Lindsay down. She will get cold if she

GLORIA 191

stays up in that fireless loft any longer," said
Gloria, who had been anxious all this time on ac
count of her old friend.

"Mrs. Lindsay, Miss de ia Vera would like to see
you," said Colonel de Crespigney, from the foot of
the ladder.

"Ay, sir, I will come down," answered the dame,
and she immediately descended.

"Granny Lindsay, my ancle has convinced me
that I ought to return home with him. I am very
sorry to leave you, but I must go!" said Gloria,
gently.

"Ah, well, dearie, I am sorry, too but of course
? ee must be guided by ee gardeen, little lady, and I
hope ee ll take no harm. ? Ee clothes are all dry
and ready for ? ee, and I ll wrap ee up warm and
nice for ee little journey," said the dame.

"And now, uncle, you will please to withdraw !
You see there is only this one room and we must
take turns."

Colonel de Crespigney smiled good humored ly
enough as he left the house to walk up and down in
the crisp, cold winter air outside.

Dame Lindsay brought the girl s clothes from the
chair over which they had been hanging near the
fire.

"Granny Lindsay, where has David Lindsay
gone?" inquired Gloria, as she arose and began to
dress herself.

"Down to the shore to look after his boat, I
reckon, lovie; or maybe he has crossed to the main
to bring a load of brushwood."

"He hurried away as soon as I awoke and you
came in. " \

192 GLORIA

"Yes, dearie, he did so to give you a cliance to get
up and dress, I reckon."

"Will he be back before I go?"

"I hope so, dearie."

Gloria slowly dressed herself, and then requested
that her uncle might be called in.

Dame Lindsay, meanwhile, had placed coffee, hot
rolls, and broiled ham on the breakfast table, and
now she went to the door and summoned Colonel
de Crespigney.

"I hope you will do us the pleasure to take a cup
of coffee this Christmas morning, sir," said the
dame, as she placed a chair at the table for her last
visitor.

"Thanks, no ; I took coffee before I left home this
morning," answered the colonel.

But Gloria sat down and drank a little cup with
her hostess.

Then, not to keep her guardian waiting longer
than necessary, she arose, and put on her hat and
sack to depart.

"Good-by, dear friend," she said, offering her
cheek to the old dame s kiss. "Good-by. I shall
never forget your motherly kindness to me. And
please to say good-by for me to David Lindsay, and
tell him that I shall hold my life sweeter from this
day forth, because he saved it."

With this grateful and gracious message to her
preserver, Gloria joined her uncle and left the cot
tage.

Involuntarily her eyes roamed all over the islet,
in search of her old playmate; but in vain, for he
was nowhere to be seen.

"Lean heavily on me, my child. You are pale and
trembling," said De Crespigney, tenderly, as he

GLORIA 193

drew her hand under his arm and slackened his
steps to accommodate them to her weary walk.

When they reached the shore, Gloria looked
around again for some signs of David Lindsay s
presence, but there was none to be seen, not even his
little boat; and this was a certain indication that
the dame s conjectures pointed to the truth, and
that the young fisherman had crossed to the main.

With a sigh Gloria gave up the hope she had
cherished of seeing and thanking him in person be
fore leaving the island.

Colonel de Crespigney s boat was waiting, and
Laban, who had seen them coming, and joyfully
recognized Gloria, was laying on the oars.

"Come, my dear," said the colonel, as he handed
his ward to her seat in the stern ; "come, make your
self comfortable. Double your sack over your chest.
It is a splendid day for late December, but the air
is rather keen on the water."

"Oh, Miss Glo ! FS so glad you s safe!" cried
Laban, grinning ^rom ear to ear. " Deed we dem
over to the house is been almos crazy bout yer
ebber since las night, when yer didn t come home to
dinner. And me and Marse Colonel Discrepancy
beatin de main woods all night long! All de
blessed, live-long Christmas Bbe night! And took
Fiddle long of us and made her smell some o yer
close, and didn t she take a round-about ramble
t rough dem woods?"

"Did you hunt for me all last night, Marcel,
dear?" inquired Gloria, with more tenderness than
she had shown him for many weeks.

"Yes, my child. Did you suppose, Gloria, that I
could have rested one moment, anywhere, from the
hour that you were missed until you were found?

194 GLORIA

It was at dinner that, on your non-appearance, I
inquired of your maid why you did not come, and
was told that you had been gone all day to the main,
and had not returned. T had no thought but that
you had lost yourself in the woods, and so I set out
at once, with Laban here and your little dog
Fidelle, and lanterns. The tide was low when we
crossed the Neck. The little animal soon struck
your trail, and convinced me that I was right. You
have been told how she kept us wandering around
in a circle all night. In the morning, as a forlorn
hope, we returned to the Promontory, took the boat
and came to the island to make inquiries."

"Oh! Marcel, dear, I never realized before how
much distress my imprudence caused you," said
Gloria, penitently, as she now for the first time ob
served the ravages that one night s intense anxiety
had wrought in the man s face.

"Yer better beliebe it den, Miss Glo !" spoke up
Laban. "Ef my head hadn t been gray long afore
dis, last night s doings would a turned it! And
dere s Phia, gone to bed long of a sick headache,
and Mia in de high-strikes."

While this conversation was going on they were
rapidly passing over the water between Sandy Isle
and the Promontory.

With Labaii s last words, the boat grounded on
the beach below the sea-wall, and the boatman drew
in his oars.

"Go on to the house as fast as you can, Laban,
and relieve the anxiety of your fellow-servants, so
that they may be in a condition to attend Miss
Davero when we get home," said Colonel de Cres-
pigney, as he handed his ward from the boat.

GLORIA 195

The man very gladly obeyed, and ran on before
them so rapidly that he was soon out of sight.

Colonel de Crespigney found himself alone with
his ward for the first time (with the exception of
the few minutes they had talked together in the
little island cot, whose very walls had ears).

He drew her hand within his arm, and support
ing her carefully, walked slowly on through that
boat-house built in the sea-wall, and then up
through the fields and ornamented grounds that lay
between it and the hall.

"Gloria, my beloved, can you really estimate all I
have suffered during your unexpected absence?" he
inquired, as he pressed the hand that rested on his
arm.

"Yes, uncle, I think I can. I am very sorry. I
was not w r orth so much anxiety, uncle, dear."

"Do not call me uncle! I cannot bear to hear
you call me so!" he burst forth with such energy
that the girl shrank from him, and shudded through
all her frame.

"Gloria ! Do you not understand me? Will you
never understand me? Child, I can smother my
feelings no longer ! I have tried to keep silence, but
I cannot! Twenty-four hours of agony have over
come my last power self-control ! Oh, my love, I
love you ! I love you !" he cried, stopping suddenly
and facing her.

"Uncle! for Heaven s sake, uncle!" she ex
claimed, in deadly terror.

"Do not call me by that name unless you would
drive me mad ! I am not the least kin to you ! I
thank the Lord I am not your uncle; for I must be
your husband ! There, it is spoken ! I love you,
Gloria, with a love that has broken down every bar-

196 GLORIA

rier of prudence, self-control, expediency, every
thing ! I love you with a love that is my fate, and
must be yours ! For you must be my wife, Gloria !"
he cried, clasping her hands in his and gazing on
her with eyes that seemed to burn into her soul.

One amazed and terrified look she cast upon him,
and then, with a half-suppressed cry, she broke
away and fled !

CHAPTER XV

THE LAST RESORT

Me miserable! Which way shall I fly?

MILTON.

GLORIA fled towards the house, sped through the
open door, rushed up the stairs, nor ever paused
until she had reached her own chamber and locked
herself within it.

There she sank down into her arm-chair to re
cover breath. Her heart was beating fast, her head
reeling.

She seemed to herself on the point of swooning
or dying, and she neither feared nor cared if this
were her last hour on earth.

She only feared to hear again the revolting words
that had just been breathed in her shuddering ears.
She only cared to escape their repetition.

This, then, was the meaning of those fixed looks
that had so thrilled her nerves and curdled her
Mood Marcel de Crespigney wanted to marry her !
Marcel, whom she always so loyally loved as her
dear aunt s husband and widower, and as her own

GLORIA 197

uncle by marriage, now wished to make her his
wife!

She shuddered, and covered her eyes with her
hands, as if to shut out the vision of such a mar
riage.

But she could not shut out the vision of the beau
tiful, rather weak face that arose before her in all
its pale, pathetic, appealing sadness. Those large,
dark, melancholy eyes haunted her.

She could not rouse her soul to any anger against
.him. She loved him too well, as she had always
done from her earliest infancy to this moment. She
could not now remember the day when she had not
loved him better than any one in the whole world.
She loved him now as well as ever as her uncle,
her Marcel but she loathed him as a suitor for her
hand.

And withal she pitied him deeply.

"Poor Marcel !" she murmured to herself when
she had grown a little calmer. "Poor Marcel ! He
has always sacrificed himself for the happiness of
other people even for auntie and he has never
had any happiness himself. And now he is losing
his reason. He certainly is losing his reason, or he
would never dream of such a mad act as marrying
Ugh! I will not think of it. What a misfortune.
What can have caused it? His long, lonely life
perhaps. And perhaps also, as he loves me so dear
ly, and he has no one else but me to love, he is afraid
that I will do as other young ladies do that is,
some time or other, marry and leave him. Foolish
old Marcel, to think that I would leave him for any
one else! If he did but know me, he would know
that I should never marry. But the more I think
of it, the surer I feel that that is the reason of his

198 GLORIA

strange conduct. He loves me; he has no one left
but me, and he fears that I will leave him, and so
he wants to marry me just to prevent my going, and
to insure my staying with him as long as he lives.
But, oh, what an alternative!" she added, with a
shudder.

She was, however, growing calmer, having found,
as she supposed, a solution of the whole difficulty.

"Now," she continued her mental argument,
"when Marcel is made to understand that I will
never leave him so long as he lives, and never even
wish to leave him, but will remain with him, and be
perfectly happy with him, in devoting myself en
tirely to his service, as the most loving and dutiful
daughter or niece could do, then, of course, he will
be perfectly satisfied."

The ringing of the first dinner-bell aroused her
from her reverie.

"Poor Marcel !" she said to herself. "I dare say
he thinks now that he has frightened and offended
me so thoroughly that I will not go down and join
him at dinner, even on this Christmas-day! And
indeed he did more than frighten me he shocked
me so awfully that I ain sure I could never bear to
look on his poor, wretched face again, if I had not
found a way to cure him of his madness, and make
him contented a way that will not require any
self-sacrifice on my part either, for I never dreamed
of marrying and leaving him. I never liked the idea
of marrying. The most unhappy people I ever saw
in my life were married people my aunt and uncle
and the happiest people I ever knew were the un
married. No! I will never marry and leave my
uncle ! And when I make him understand this, he

GLORIA 199

will renounce his foolish and sacrilegious mania
and rest contented with the company of his niece."

While turning these thoughts over in her mind,
she was examining the contents of her wardrobe to
select a dress suitable to the occasion.

Gloria de la Vera had always dressed in a style
too old for her early youth and bright beauty. The
reason w r as perhaps that she saw only elderly or
aged people.

Now, for this Christmas tete-a-tete dinner with
her uncle, she wore a dark blue moire antique, with
low neck and short sleeves richly trimmed with old
point lace. Her ornaments were heirlooms of her
father s family earrings, necklace and bracelets of
pearls set in diamonds. Her rippling golden hair
was carried back from her forehead and gathered
into a shower of ringlets that fell over a low comb
from the top of her head to her graceful shoulders.

As the second bell rang, she opened the door and
descended to the drawing-room.

Meanwhile Marcel de Crespigney had returned to
the house, entered the privacy of his library, and
banged the door to, angrily, behind him.

And there he had spent some hours striding up
and down the floor and calling down maledictions
on his own head for his want of patience and self-
control.

In the midst of his confusion the sound of the
first dinner-bell smote his ears.

He did not attend to its warning to go and make
his toilet, but continued to walk up and down the
floor, breathing imprecations upon his own folly,
until the more imperative clangor of the second bell
summoned him.

"And now," he said, "I suppose I have so offended

200 GLORIA

and estranged her as to drive her away from the
table so that I shall have to dine alone on Christ
mas-day ! Well, it will serve me right if I do !"

And with another malediction upon his "mad
ness," he left the study and walked slowly and sadly
into the dining-room.

How great was his surprise and pleasure to see
his beloved Gloria standing with her hand upon the
back of her chair, at the head of the table.

He noticed, too, that she was carefully and beau
tifully dressed though, with her moir6 antique, old
point lace and diamonds, more in the style of a
middle-aged matron than a very youthful maiden.

She was looking happy, too a circumstance
which he misunderstood and misinterpreted in his
own favor, for he could not know what had been
passing in her own mind, or that her content was
founded on the faith that she had discovered a per
fect solution for the difficulty in which she had pre
viously found herself.

If the servant had not been present he would
have expressed his contrition for having frightened
her, and his delight in meeting her again, but there
stood Laban, in his best holiday dress, a suit of fine
black broadcloth, swallow-tailed coat and continua
tions, black satin vest and spotless linen, exhibit
ing at once the self-consciousness of a dandy and
the solemnity of a bishop, and looking disapproba
tion on his shabby and rusty master, who had made
no toilet in honor of the Christmas dinner.

The young lady of the house took no notice of the
colonel s neglect; yet it was to her he spoke, of
course, when he said:

"I owe you an apology, my dear, for appearing
before you in this style, but really "

GLORIA 201

"Never mind, uncle, dear. We are alone, so what
does it matter? Who has a better right to appear
in comfortable dishabille at his own table than you
have?" she brightly inquired, thinking at the same
time of the graver apology he owed her for a heavier
offence.

He naturally misinterpreted her good humor, and
rewarded it with a smile of gratitude.

Though they were but two, the dinner was a pro
tracted one, for there were many courses, and the
family cook would have felt enraged if every one
of them had not been honored.

And old Laban a cross between a bishop and a
dandy waited with solemnity and self-conceit.

At length it was over, and they adjourned to the
drawing-room.

"Shall I play Luther s Christmas hymn for you,
uncle, dear?" inquired Gloria, as she seated herself
before the piano.

"Yes, love, thank you, play that, but no more; for
I wish to talk with you and settle something before
I can take any interest in anything else," he replied.

Gloria sat down and played and sang with all
her usual feeling, spirit and charm.

When she had finished her hymn, she arose and
went to the fire and seated herself beside her guard
ian ; for she also wished to talk to him, and "settle
something" which she believed would content then>
both.

Colonel de Crespigney was the first to speak.

"I was too sudden with you this morning, dear.
I did not stop to consider how your nerves had been
shaken by the frightful accident of yesterday, and
so I startled you by a too abrupt disclosure of my
feelings." He paused a moment, and then added:

202 GLORIA

"I beg you to forgive my want of consideration, dear

child, and to let me hope " He paused again,

and she took his hand and said kindly :

"Say no more about it, uncle, dear. I understand
I understand and I have something to reply,
presently."

"You understand, and yet you call me uncle !" he
said, wincing.

"It was a slip of the tongue, Marcel, dear. A
mere matter of habit. I will learn to call you any
thing you please, so that I may make you happy,"
she answered, affectionately.

"And you will let me hope you will let me hope
that some day, not far off, you will give yourself
to me entirely; you will be my own, my precious,
my pearl beyond price, my best gift of God MY
WIFE?" he breathed, in low, deep, intense tones,
while his whole dark face grew radiant with happi
ness. He took her hand and gazed into her eyes.
She drew her hand away, averted her head and
shrank from him.

"My timid one, what are you afraid of?" he ten
derly inquired, drawing nearer to her, and attempt
ing gently to steal his arm around her waist, for he
still fatally misunderstood her.

"Don t, uncle, don t! This is madness! This is
sacrilege!" she exclaimed, withdrawing herself
from his gentle caress. "I am not timid, uncle;
but don t do that again, or you will drive me out of
your sight forever," she added, as she walked away
to a distant window, and stood there, pale and
trembling, looking out, but seeing nothing.

Marcel de Crespigney remained where she had
left him, leaning back into his chair, with his eyes
fixed upon the fire like hers, seeing nothing.

GLORIA 203

He did not attempt to follow her to apologize or
explain. He was sorely perplexed.

After a few moments, when she had had time to
compose herself, she came back to her seat and
said:

"When I ran away from you this morning, I was
too much shocked and distracted to understand
anything rightly, or to know what to do. But after
I had come to myself I began to reflect, and, at

length, I comprehended " She paused, as if to

think a little longer.

"Yes, dear; I know, I know. I will give you
time. I will be very patient," he replied, very gen
tly and contentedly, for he still widely misinter
preted her. She did not know that he did so mis
interpret her, and thus they were unconsciously at
cross-purposes.

"And," slowly continued the girl, "as soon as I
comprehended, I resolved to come to you and tell
you something that I have determined upon, and
which I think will harmonize our lives, and make
us both happy."

"Yes, love, yes, speak freely, speak plainly!" he
breathed hardly, suppressing every impulse to draw
nearer to her, or to touch her hand that hung so
near his, over the arm of her chair.

"Well, then, Marcel, dear oh! it is difficult to
speak of marriage, even negatively, as I shall ! but,
Marcel, I know you have been thinking that some
day I might, as other young folks do, marry and
leave my home for another; and so, to prevent me
from doing that, you dreamed of the impossible
plan you proposed to me "

" Impossible, Gloria?" he repeated, as his happy
face gloomed and darkened.

204 GLORIA

"Yes, impossible, because insane, profane, sacri
legious! Oh, I cannot bear to think of it! Do not
compel me to think of it even negatively after
this!"

"Gloria !" he cried, in a tone of pain and reproach.

"Hear me out, dear Marcel! for indeed I mean
to reassure you ! Listen, then ! Since you love me
so well that you would even marry me ugh !
rather than lose me, hear me promise, Marcel, that
you shall never lose me. I will never, never, never
leave you to marry any one at all ! I will stay with
you and be your own faithful, affectionate, devoted
niece, loving you as if I were your daughter loving
and serving you as my dear uncle, and even as if you
were my own father! Now, Marcel, I promise to
do this on the word of a de la Vera, whose very
name is Truth ! if only you would give up this mad
and sacrilegious idea of me, which, of course, I
know you will readily do."

"And is this your plan for harmonizing our
lives and making me happy?" he groaned, with
such a look of anguish that Gloria could not en
dure it. With a low cry of pain she averted her
face.

"But, child, I will not torture you, as I see I am
doing now. Time and patience time and patience
work wonders. I must wait and hope wait and
hope," he breathed, with the reiteration of misery.

She arose and stood behind him, and with her
hand on the back of his chair, murmured :

"Marcel, I am not angry, but I am very, very un
happy. I must go now and stay by myself a little
while."

"Go, then, Gloria! Go!" he moaned, without
turning to look at her.

GLORIA 205

Gloria fled to her own room ; but even there the
agonized face she had left behind followed her,
haunted her, and tormented her.

Then she dressed herself in her seal jacket and
hat and went out, and walked up and down under
the cold starlight of the Christmas night until she
was so weary that she could walk no longer.

Finally she returned to the house and retired to
bed without again seeing her guardian.

The terrible mental trials of the days and weeks
that followed, surpass all powers of description.

The deep, devoted, constant love of Marcel de
Crespigney for the beautiful child he called his
ward, had been fanned by opposition and fear of
disappointment into an intense and insane passion.
He lost all patience, all self-control; he could no
longer refrain from pleading with her or caressing
her, even when he saw that his words and actions
inflicted tortures unendurable upon the gentle and
sensitive soul.

And Gloria, she suffered with a subtle anguish,
difficult to analyze, impossible to describe. As his
niece and child, she loved and pitied her uncle, with
all her young, compassionate heart, even as she had
loved and pitied him from her earliest infancy up
to present girlhood. But with her Christian faith
and training she believed his suit to her to be most
sinful and sacrilegious, and she shrank from it in
horror and loathing unspeakable and indescribable.
Yet, whenever she betrayed these emotions of fear
and abhorrence, the look of utter misery they would
call up on his face would cause a momentary re
vulsion of feeling in her, melting her heart to ten
derness and sympathy.

206 GLORIA

He would be quick to see this change and gather
hope from it.

Sometimes during the day, when her pity for him
almost broke her own heart, she would be on the
verge of sacrificing all her future life, her religious
principles, her very soul s salvation, only to give
him happiness, to drive away the look of misery
from his face, and see him smile again.

Sometimes at night she would dream that she had
really done this, that she had become her uncle s
wife. Then she would awake with a cry of terror
and rejoice that it was but a dream. At other
times she would not wake so soon, but would dream
on of being married to her uncle, and horrified by
her position and trying to run away to hide herself,
to drown herself, to do anything rather than to fall
into his hands, or be compelled to live with him as
her husband, and so she would moan and sigh in
her troubled sleep throughout the night, and wake
at last prostrated, depressed and miserable, with
the thought that all too probably, in some weak
moment when pity should be in the ascendant, this
hideous dream might become a more hideous reality.

She had no refuge in her wretchedness, no mother,
sister or friend to whom she could confide her
troubles. She could not even go away from her
guardian or from Promontory Hall. She had no
protector in the world but him, no home on earth
but his house. Besides, he was her lawful guardian,
and had a guardian s power over her if, indeed,
he ever should choose to exercise it against her will,
as he never yet had done, and as she was sure he
never would do. But this power would last until
she should become of age, or until she should marry ;
for by the terms of her father s will, her bondage as

GLORIA 207

a ward was to terminate with her majority or her
marriage. Thus she had no refuge from the guard
ian who never sought to coerce her inclinations in
any way, but through her affections, through her
love, sympathy and compassion, had gained an ever-
increasing and most fatal power over her.

More and more dangerous grew her position as
days and weeks went by. Every day she was
weaker, looking on her lover s despair. Every night
her dreams were more terrible in their likeness to
reality. To prove the degree to which her brain
and nervous system were becoming affected, she be
gan to be confused by dreams within dreams in
this way : She would dream that she awoke from a
dream, and, waking, found that she was really mar
ried and miserable!

So utterly distracted was her mind that she could
never be sure what was vision and what reality.

She felt herself falling into a despair that touched
insanity, and inspired deadly horror of the ultimate
results.

"I am sinking, day by day, deeper and deeper to
wards perdition ! One of two things will happen to
me. I shall go mad in this struggle I shall go
mad and drown myself or else I shall marry Mar
cel and murder him ! If I could only die decently
before being driven to such extremity! Heaven
help me and save me, for I cannot help or save my
self !" she moaned, in utter anguish.

But the crisis was fast approaching.

It happened on a morning near the last of Jan
uary.

The guardian and ward left the breakfast-room;
he had his hand on the knob of the library-door,
and she was on her way out for a walk, when he

208 GLORIA

called her, and begged her to come in and sit with
him for a little while.

The meekness of this prayer moved her to grant
the boon.

Without a word she turned and followed him
into the library.

He threw himself, with a sigh, into his great
leathern arm-chair, beside his writing-table. She
drew forward a low ottoman and seated herself at
his feet, as she had loved to do in the quiet, peace
ful days they had spent together, just after her re
turn home.

There was something now in his face and manner
so broken, subdued, resigned, as to touch her deep
ly with tender compassion, and draw her into
demonstrations of sympathy and affection that soon
deprived him of all self-control. Before he was
aware, he reached down his hands, caught her up
in his arms, strained her to his bosom, and pressed
passionate kisses upon eyes, cheeks and lips, while
speechless, breathless, she struggled and fluttered
like a captured bird, until, at length, she broke
away and fled from him.

He sat where she had left him, grieved and an
gered with himself for having shocked and dis
tressed her whom he loved better than his own life ;
he cursed himself and his weakness and his folly
as he had never done before! He resolved that
henceforth he would put such a guard upon himself
as never to offend her again, by word or look. He
would not intrude upon her in any way; but when
he should see her again he would humbly express
his contrition and sorrow for having offended her,
and would earnestly beg her forgiveness.

And she would forgive him; for, after all, what

GLORIA 209

great wrong had he done? Only kissed her against
her will; kissed her rather roughly, perhaps, but
that was because she resisted him. What great of
fence was in that? he asked himself. Had he not
seen in the parlor games of forfeits played in many
a country house had he not seen young men "pick
cherries," as they called it run after a young girl
and catch and kiss her by force, if not against her
will, and been punished only by a slap on the face,
administered with a laugh?

"Gloria is too fastidious, too morbid," he said to
himself.

Yet somehow he could not so excuse himself to
his own conscience. Gloria was pure, dainty and
refined, and he was very culpable in his conduct to
ward her, his conscience told him.

Now he resolved that he would ask her pardon,
and after obtaining it he would be more discreet
and respectful in his manner towards her until his
love and patience should win her to be his wife.

Too LATE.

Marcel de Crespigney was never in his life again
permitted to look on the face of Gloria de la Vera.

CHAPTER XVI

GLORIA S RAGE

My drops of tears
I turn to sparks of fire.

SHAKESPEARE.

TERRIFIED and enraged beyond aiay thing that she
had ever experienced in all the days of her life,

GLORIA

offended and revolted beyond all hope of reconcilia
tion, Gloria had fled from the presence of her guard
ian and sought the sanctity of her own room.

There she locked herself in, and sat down to re
cover her lost wits and breath.

She sat there, looking not like the glad little Glo
whom we first knew, and whose pulse was music
and whose breath was song no, she sat there, with
her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand,
and her eyes fixed on vacancy, shrunk to half their
size, gleaming with twice their fire, and glowing
like live coals from the white ashes of her pale and
angry face she sat there like some grim little
Sphinx or Nemesis brooding revenge and plotting
ruin.

"I hate him now. I can never bear to look upon
his face again !" so ran her thoughts. "To dare
to kiss me on my lips ! Why, my own beloved father
seldom kissed me except upon my brow. And David
Lindsay, my old playmate and my preserver, who
loves me so unselfishly David Lindsay, as he knelt
beside my bed, on the morning after he had saved
my life, only lifted a curl of my hair and pressed
it to his face, and when he saw ine wake and look at
him, he laid the tress down reverently, as if it were
something almost too sacred to be touched. And
he is a poor, uncultivated man. And to think that
this gentleman, this officer, this Colonel de Cres-
pigney, should have so forgotten his honor! This
guardian should have so betrayed his trust as to
seize and hold me powerless and kiss me on my lips
in spite of all my struggles and distress! Oh, the
meanness of the act ! the meanness of the act ! No,
I can never trust him again. I can never bear to
see his face again. I will not spend another day in

GLORIA 211

his house. But where, oh, where shall I fly? I
have no place in the world to go to ! Or, if I had,
there is no place to which he would not follow me
not to compel my return, though as my guardian
he could do that. But he would not; he would do
even worse; he would so humble himself to me,
would so plead with me, would look so heart-broken
that he would be sure to prevail with me and coax
me back. Oh, Heaven! oh, Heaven! if I cannot
trust him, neither can I trust myself! I hate him,
and I fear him, and yet I pity him and love him,
too ! And who knows but that in some moment of
idiotic pity I may not consent to all he pleads for
and contract this repulsive marriage? Then I
should go mad and murder him, or kill myself.
That is what I am afraid of. That gulf of black
ruin! What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?
Where can I fly from him and from myself? Who
will save me from myself and from him? Oh, WHAT
shall I do?"

She leaned her head upon her hand and reflected
intently for some minutes, but could think of no
plan by which to escape.

Suddenly, without any volition of her own will,
there flowed into her soul an inspiration. She
started and raised her head as one listening to a
suggestion. Her cheeks flushed and paled, and
flushed again, and her eyes brightened as she arose
and exclaimed :

"Yes, I will! I will do it! I will marry David
Lindsay. I will put one pure, good, brave man
between me and the Evil ! I do not care though he
is poor and rough. I know he is good and true,
noble and honorable! No gentleman in the land is
more so. I can trust David Lindsay trust him

GLORIA

utterly. He would never kiss me against my will
never wound or offend me in any way. Yes, I
will marry my old playmate, David Lindsay, and
we will keep house in earnest as we used to do in
fun. And then I shall be free free as air for I
know that by the terms of my father s will, my
guardian s power over me and my estate ceases on
the day of my marriage. I know it, for I have often
heard Aunt Agrippina say how thoughtless it was
in my father to make such a proviso in his will.
For suppose, she would say, some fortune-hunter
should marry the child, you have no power to pre
vent it, or to withhold her estates. That is the way
I found it out. And I am glad it is so, for now I
can marry David Lindsay, and enrich dear Dame
Lindsay, and let them take me to one of my own
fine houses and live with me in comfort. Or David
might go to Harvard or Yale, and get the college
training he has so long aspired to, and leave Dame
Lindsay to take care of me. I will do it at once !"

It is wonderful how swiftly the mind acts under
excitement. This whole plan swept through the
mind of Gloria in a few minutes succeeding the first
inspiration of the idea.

She did not now hesitate for an instant. She
dressed herself quickly, and in the best and warmest
suit she possessed. I said that she always dressed
in the style of an old woman rather than that of a
young girl. Now she put on a black velvet suit, a
seal-skin sack and hat. The hat was the only girlish
article she wore. Finally she drew on her brown
kid gloves, took her muff and started for the door.
But before she opened it she remembered that she
would need more personal effects than she wore; so
she laid down her muff, drew off her gloves, and

GLORIA 213

went and found and packed a small Russian leather
traveling-bag that had been her companion on her
tour through Europe. This she hung upon her arm,
then taking her muff, she left the room.

On reaching the landing at the foot of the stairs
she found Lamia engaged in brightening the knobs
of the parlor doors.

"Where is your master?" she inquired of the girl.

"In de liberary, a tearin up and down de room
like Old Black Sam was into him beggin yer par
don for say in ob sich things, Miss Glo . Does you
want me to go and tell him you d like to see him
fore you goes out?"

"No, not at all," replied the young lady.

"Well, where shall I say you is gone, if he ax me,
Miss Glo ?"

"Tell him that I have gone to take a long walk,
and he is not to wait dinner for me."

"And when shall I say you ll be back, Miss Glo ?"

"You needn t tell him when, for I don t know my
self."

"Well, so as you gets back fore sun-down, I
s pose marse will be satisfied," said the unsus
picious girl, as she resumed her rubbing of the brass
knob then under her hand.

Gloria then left the house to hasten on her mad
errand.

She walked rapidly, like one still acting under a
high pressure of excitement.

She reached the boat-house, which was no longer
kept locked. She passed through it and went out
upon the beach, for it was now low tide.

There she found a little boat that she had some
times been in the habit of rowing, near the shore.

Now she got into it, put down her hand-bag and

GLORIA

her muff, unhooked the boat-chain and threw it
ashore, took the oar and pushed the boat off the
sands, then seated herself and rowed for the little
sandy island. The water was perfectly smooth, and
her arms were braced by a strange, tense resolve.
She sped swiftly over the intervening half mile, and
in ten minutes reached her destination. She drew
in her oar, and using it as a pole, struck it into the
sands and pushed the boat up on the beach.

Then she picked up her hand-bag and muff and
sprang ashore.

For a moment she stood still, looking all around
for a chance sight of David Lindsay; for maddened
as she was at this moment, there was "method"
enough in that "madness" to make her unwilling
to go on to the cottage and meet the placid, steady,
conscientious Dame Lindsay.

She soon descried the young fisherman. He was
standing on the shore at some distance, bending over
an upturned boat, engaged in repairing it. His
position prevented him from seeing, and the sound
of his own hammer from hearing her approach, of
which he remained quite unconscious even when
she stood by his side.

She had nerved herself for the trial before her,
yet now it seemed as if all the blood had forsaken
her extremities and curdled about her heart, so
pallid was her face.

She stood for a moment at his side while he con
tinued to hammer industriously at his work, quite
unconscious of her presence, until she spoke to him
in a low tone.

"David Lindsay."

He started, dropped his hammer, turned, took off
his hat, and stood waiting her commands. He had

GLORIA 215

not seen her since the morning after he had saved
her life, and now he was too much amazed at her
sudden appearance on the isle to find any word by
which to welcome her. He could merely wait for
her to make known the object of her visit.

For some moments she too continued silent. It
seemed to her that it must take her life to utter the
words which she had come resolved to speak, and
with which this story opened :

"David Lindsay, will you marry me?"
It is not necessary to go over any part of that
scene already related. It must be still fresh in the
minds of our readers.

Well might the young fisherman be struck dumb
with amazement and terror; well might his half
palsied tongue refuse to utter any word but her own
name, and that in a tone of unbounded consterna
tion ; for must not the lovely girl and wealthy heir
ess have lost her reason before making a proposal
of marriage to any man, least of all to him the
poor, uncultivated young laborer? And when he
had heard all that she had to say, well might he
groan forth, in tones of deepest sorrow :
"Miss de la Vera, it is you who are mad !"
" <Mad T *Mad r " she echoed, her face reflecting
the dismay so plainly revealed on his own counte
nance. " *Mad ! Oh, indeed, perhaps I am ! But,
oh, David Lindsay, if I am mad, so much the more
need have I of your protection! If I am mad, oh,
my old playmate, marry the poor mad girl to take
care of her, to save her from herself, to save her
from something worse than madness! to save her
from sin! from crime! from murder! from suicide!"
she exclaimed, her vehemence and wild excitement
increasing with every word.

216 GLORIA

"Great Heavens, Miss de la Vera ! What has hap
pened to drive you to this extremity?" cried the
young man, turning deadly pale, in dread of he
knew not what. "Tell me all ! Everything, freely !
You know that my heart is yours my life is at your
feet, to do your will with ! You know that I would
do anything on earth you wish me to do, unless it
would be to do you any wrong. Now you plead
with me to do that which would make this world
a paradise to me, unless it should make it a purga
tory to you. Now tell me all. But first sit down.
You are trembling so that you can scarcely stand,"
he added, as he threw off his pea-jacket, folded it
and laid it on the overturned boat, to make her a
comfortable seat.

She sank down, mechanically, too absorbed in the
subject of her thoughts to notice how he had ex
posed himself to the cold for her convenience.

That she might speak with the less embarrass
ment, he stood a little behind her. And then, with
her eyes fixed upon the ground, she told him all!
And she ended with these words fearful words for
her to speak and for her old playmate to hear :

"And, oh, David Lindsay! you know how I al
ways loved my uncle! loved him with the holy, ten
der, caressing love of a child for its father! And
I love him so still ! And I do pity him infinitely, be
cause he suffers, and has always suffered so much !
But, oh, when he wants to marry me, I hate him,
oh, I hate him with the hate of a demon ! I could
kill him at such times! I could! I sometimes
dream that I have married him and murdered him,
and am flying from justice ! or that I am in a con
demned cell, or on the scaffold, and I wake in a
cold sweat of terror and horror. And it may come

GLORIA 217

to this, David Lindsay ! It may come to this unless
you save me ! I can trust you, my old playmate, I
can trust you utterly! And to whom could I fly
but to you? Who knows me so well as you? To
whom am I so well known ? Whom have I on earth
but yoa, David Lindsay? Do not stand behind me!
Come around here and let me see you," she con
cluded, slightly turning her head.

"God forgive me if I do wrong ! God forgive me
if this great temptation blinds me to the right!"
murmured the young man as he left his position be
hind her seat.

And then not because she was a high-born heir
ess stooping to him, a poor fisherman no, indeed,
for there was nothing abject in David Lindsay s
nature; but because she was a young girl driven to
humiliation as unprecedented as it was undeserved
-he came and humbled himself before her, sank on
his knees at her feet, took her hand, bowed his fore
head upon it and said :

"See me here at your bidding. I am your own,
your slave, to do your will in everything. Tell me
what to do!"

"Oh, David Lindsay, rise and sit beside me," she
murmured, with the tears springing to her eyes.

He obeyed her and waited for her further words.

"Take me away from here at once, David Lind
say ! Take me to Washington, where we can be mar
ried. Then to my own house of Gryphynshold !
There I shall be safe! You know where that is?"

"In Virginia yes."

"Take me there, and from that place communi
cate with my guardian, who must then come to a
settlement and yield up all authority over me, or

218 GLORIA

my estate; for such were the terms of my father s
will."

"The steamboat from Norfolk to Washington will
stop at La Compte s Landing this afternoon. If we
cross about now we will be sure to meet it," said the
young man.

"Then go and get ready for your journey at once,
David Lindsay. I will sit here and wait for you.
But what will Granny Lindsay say to your sudden
departure? And, oh, what will she do, here by her
self? I never thought of that before," said the girl,
compunctiously.

"Do not distress yourself, lady. All things work
together for your will to-day ; for this morning my
grandmother left home for the first time in many
years, and for an absence of some days," replied
the young man.

"Granny Lindsay from home !" exclaimed Gloria,
in surprise, not unmixed with a feeling of relief.

"Yes, she is gone to St. Inigoes to keep house for
the brethren until they can procure another house
keeper in place of the one recently deceased. You
know they will not take one under sixty years of
age," added David, gravely.

"Oh, I am so glad she will not be left alone here !"
exclaimed Gloria.

"Come up to the house, then, will you not, and
rest in granny s room, while I go in my roost and
make ready?"

Gloria silently arose and followed him.

When they entered the neat room, David placed
a chair for his young guest, then put the brands of
tire together on the hearth, kindled them to a blaze,
and hung the tea-kettle over it.

"Why do you take that trouble?" she inquired.

GLORIA 219

"You must have a cup of tea before you go. It
will not take any extra time, since the kettle will
come to a boil while I am getting ready," he replied,
as he went up the ladder stairs that led through the
trap-door to his own loft.

Gloria heard him walking to and fro, as he made
his preparations for the unexpected journey. She,
on her part, could not sit still. She felt as if she
were in one of her nightmare dreams from which she
could not wake. And again she felt as if she were
going mad.

A sweet, homely household sound aroused her
from this morbid mood. It was the singing of the
tea-kettle over the fire. A happy thought came to
her. She would play housewife for David Lindsay
this once before leaving the cottage. She had spent
days enough in the little place to know where all
the stores were kept.

So she went first to the corner cupboard with the
glass door, and opened it and found the little black
tea-pot and the tin tea-cannister, and made the tea
and set it to draw.

Then she drew out the little red-stained pine
table, found the white cloth and the buck-handled
knives and forks and the plated spoons in the
drawer, and arranged them, then took the cups and
saucers and plates from the corner cupboard, and
finally she went out to the "safe" in the shed, to
which in her childhood s days she had so often fol
lowed Dame Lindsay, and found bread, butter, milk
and cold meat, all of which she brought and put
upon the table.

When her self -assumed task was completed, she
sat down to wait, but felt too restless to sit long.
Soon she arose and began to pace up and down the

GLORIA

floor, when David Lindsay descended the ladder
stairs, equipped for his journey, and carrying a
large, black oil-skin bag in his hand.

"Ah ! why did you weary yourself with this work,
lady? I should soon have done it for you," he said,
as he glanced at the completed preparations for a
meal.

"Well, I wanted to do it. It is not the first time
I have set the table for you and me, is it, David
Lindsay? Don t you remember our little dinners,
cooked with a driftwood fire on the beach? Don t
you remember the flat stone we used to have for a
table, and the crash towel for a tablecloth?"

"Do I not?" he asked, as a warm smile irradiated
his face. This was the first time she had seen him
smile since her sudden appearance on the island.

"Come and sit down, then, and I will pour out
the tea."

They placed themselves at the table, upon which
she had already set the tea-pot. They made some
pretence of eating and drinking, and then Gloria
inquired :

"Have we time to put everything in order before
we go?"

"Oh, yes," responded the young man, "quite time
enough."

And together they went to work and cleared
away the table, and washed and replaced the dishes.

Next they took all the meat and bread and fish
that was in the house and put it out in the shed, so
that Priscilla and Nicholas, the cat and dog, might
have something to eat during the week of Granny
Lindsay s absence.

Then David Lindsay covered up the fire, and

GLORIA

locked up the house, all except the door by which
they would go out.

"Ah ! suppose Granny Lindsay should come back
very soon?" said Gloria.

"She will not come back before I have time to
write her a letter, inclosed in one to the priest, and
telling them both all about our position," said
David Lindsay.

"That is all, then. I believe I have no other
anxiety/ 7 said Gloria, as they left the house to
gether.

David Lindsay walked in advance, carrying his
own large bag in one hand, and Gloria s little one
in the other.

Gloria followed, with her hands in her muff, and
so they reached the sands where she had landed.

"We shall have to use your boat, lady dear, since
mine lies bottom upward on the beach, waiting for
repairs/ 7 he said, as he placed the two bags in the
skiff and handed his companion to a seat in the
stern.

"It is uncle s boat ; but we can send it back by a
man from La Compte 7 s Landing/ 7 replied Gloria,
as her escort took the oars and laid himself stoutly
to them.

They first crossed the water to a landing on the
main opposite the little island. David Lindsay
pushed the boat up on the sands, and beckoned to
an old negro man who was seen standing in the
open door of his hut, and commissioned him or his
wife to go across to the island every day to attend to
the needs of Winny, the cow, and to the pig and the
poultry ; and gave them the use of all the milk and
eggs until Dame Lindsay s return.

GLORIA

Then he pushed off and rowed away from the
place.

La Compte s Landing lay two miles down the
coast, and it took a half hour s hard rowing to reach
its wharf and boat-house on the sands. Above these
the land, covered with a thicket of trees, rose
abruptly for several hundred feet. From the midst
of the trees on the summit might be seen the chim
neys and peaked roof of La Compte s Lodge, and,
farther down, the steeple of St. Luke s church.

"This is my place also, David Lindsay, and it will
soon be our place. But I would not live here. It is
too near the Promontory," said Gloria, as they
landed.

An old negro man stood by the flagstaff.
"Gwine to take de boat, sar?" he inquired of the
young man.

"Yes," answered the latter.

Whereupon the negro ran up the red flag. That
was the signal for the steamboat to stop for passen
gers.

"Dey s so few folks trabelin by water dis clem
ent season ob de year dat it most don t seem much
use to ploy a flagman to come down yer twice a
week to tend it. But dey do tell me, better come
ten times for noffin dan to let one passenger be dis
appointed."

"But couldn t passengers hoist the flag for them
selves?" inquired the young man.

"Dem as understood could; but it ain t ebery
stranger as comes down here to take de boat what
knows dey is got to raise de flag. An ? less de flag
is riz, de boat won t stop, when it ain t got nobody
on board to land here. And now, young marse, de
boat ll be here in a foo minutes."

GLORIA 223

"David, dear, come here, please," said Gloria,
walking off to a little distance.

He followed her and she placed in his hand a
well-filled pocket-book.

"What is this for?" he inquired.

"For our expenses. I forgot to hand it to you
before; forgot even that it would be needed; but
you had better take it now, before we go on the
boat."

He flushed crimson to the very edge of his black
hair, as he gave her back the pocket-book and said :

"No, lady, dear, I do not need it, indeed; I have
saved something from years of labor, and I have
plenty for our present needs."

It was now Gloria s time to blush.

"I beg your pardon, David Lindsay; I did not
know, indeed I did not mean "

But he interrupted her by lifting her gloved fin
gers to his lips, bowing over them, and leading her
back to the wharf. Then he went to the old flag
man, and, giving him some money, engaged his ser
vices to take back Colonel de Crespigney s boat to
the Promontory pier, and leave it there.

By this time the steamer was seen puffing its way
towards the wharf.

In a few minutes it drew alongside and stopped.

A plank was thrown across to them and the two
passengers went on board.

A few minutes more, and the steamer was blow
ing her way up the bay for the mouth of the Poto
mac River.

"You shall never repent this if my life can help
it, lady, dear though it is for you a leap in the
dark/ " whispered David Lindsay to the grave-faced

GLORIA

child that leaned upon his arm, as they stood alone
together on the deck of the steamboat.

"No," said Gloria, "it is not a leap in the dark
it is a spring into liberty and light."

CHAPTER XVII
WED

? Tis sure some dream, some vision vain,

What I, the child of rank and wealth,

Am I the wretch that wears this chain?

G. M. L.

THE sky was gray, the wind high, and the sea
rough, yet David and Gloria remained on deck. He
had led her to a bench behind the wheel-house, and
there they sat, partly sheltered from the blast.

As the old flagman had truly said, there were not
many travelers by the steamboat at this inclement
season of the year only a few country tradesmen,
picked up at different points along the shores of the
bay, who were taking time by the forelock and going
to the Northern cities to purchase their spring
goods.

All these were total strangers to Gloria and
David; and as they lounged or sauntered, talking
politics or smoking pipes, to and fro from stem to
stern, on the deck, they scarcely bestowed a glance
upon the young pair, seated behind the wheel-house,
who, indeed, kept themselves aloof from all their
fellow-passengers, until the ringing of the tea-bell
brought them all down together into the ill-lighted
saloon.

GLORIA

Here Gloria found herself the only lady at the
table, with a dozen or more men, officers and passen
gers all counted ; but as the motion of the steamboat
was now very rough, she took it for granted that all
the other ladies who might be on board were con
fined to their berths by sea-sickness.

After tea the young couple returned to the deck,
but found the weather too blustering for the girl ;
so they went again to the saloon, but found that the
table had been cleared of the tea-service anc 1 the
men had gathered about it in parties of four to play
cards, smoke and drink ; so finally they went to the
companion-way leading below, and there David
Lindsay bid Gloria good-night, for there was no ad
mittance for him in the Ladies Cabin.

When she reached this sanctuary she found that
she was the only woman on board the steamer, with
the exception of the stewardess.

This latter came to proffer her services to the
young lady. She was a wonderfully tall, black and
spare specimen of the negro race. A striped gown
and a high turban added to her unusual altitude.

" Ebenin, Miss. Well, as yer s de only lady here,
yer kin hab fus choice of dese here staterooms on
each side de cabin," she said.

"Is there any difference ?" inquired the girl with
a smile.

"Some is double and some is single, and dem
in de middle is straight, and next to de stairs is
crooked."

"Well, you shall choose for me."

"Den I vise you to take a double one in
de middle."

"Thanks," said Gloria. She did not then go into
the selected stateroom, but she sat down in the

GLORIA

rocking-chair and put her feet to the fire in the
stove.

"Reckon yer s gwine back to school in de city
arter the Christmas holidays?" ventured the
stewardess.

"No," replied the young lady.

"Den yer s gwine long your pappy to buy goods
maybe?"

"No."

"To visit yer lations, den?"

"No."

"Well, what on de face ob de yeth is yer gwine
for?" bluntly inquired the stewardess.

"On business," good-humoredly replied the girl.

"Oh !" said the woman.

There was silence for a few minutes, and then the
woman began to murmur, partly to herself:

"Now, I wonder what business can call a young
gal to town at this unlawful season ob de wintry
wedder in a cold steamboat?"

As the young lady did not reply to this, the
woman felt driven to say, more decidedly :

"You looks moughty youngish for de like ob sich,
and I d eben fink as yer ma or aunt would be goin
wid you ; but is yer gwine to buy yer weddin close?"

"Perhaps," said Gloria.

"Dere! I did guess it, arter all!" triumphantly
exclaimed the woman.

Then, to stop further examination, Gloria de
termined to turn the tables by questioning the ques
tioner.

"What is your name, auntie?" she hastened to
inquire.

"Laweeny Long, dough dey do mostly call me
Long Laweeny, cause, yer see, honey, I is ober six

GLORIA 227

feet tall, which can t be said for all the men, let
alone wimmin. Lay-wee-ny Long, honey! One ob
de La Compte colored ladies, honey, and been run-
nin stewardess long o Cappin Bright ebber since
my mist ess died."

"You are Lavinia, one of the La Compte colored
people?" questioned Gloria, in surprise.

"Hi, what I tell yer? Yes, honey, one ob de La
Compte colored ladies, I is. My mist ess was Miss
Eleano La Compte, what married a speckled for
eigner, which he was a great man in his own coun
try, too, I b liebe! Howseber, he s dead, and so is
she, and lef one only darter an heiress, my present
young mist ess, dough I hab nebber seed her Miss
Delia Werry."

"Miss de la Vera, do you mean?"

"Yes, honey, dat s zactly what I said. Miss Delia
Werry. Does yer know her, honey?"

"Not very well," replied Gloria, with a smile.
"At least, I may say with truth that I don t know
much good of her."

"Now, look here, young gal!" wrathfully ex
claimed Long Laweeny, "don t you go a back-bitin
my young mist ess behind her back! Now, I tell
yer good, don t you ! She s my young mist ess, she
is, and what harm does you know of her, pray?
Dere, now, what harm does you know of her?"

"I did not say that I knew any harm of her ; and,
moreover, if it will give you any satisfaction,
auntie, I can tell you that I love Miss de la Vera
very much, very much more than any one else in
the world, I am afraid."

"Den I m glad yer does. But what make yer say
yer don t know no good o she?" inquired the
woman, doubtfully.

228 GLORIA

"Oh, I was jesting, you see, only jesting; for I
have as much respect for Miss de la Vera as I have
for myself."

"Den yer nms know her right well?"

"No, I m sure I don t, not half as well as I would
like to know her. But now you say you belong
to the estate. How comes it then that you are here
as stewardess on this steamboat?"

"Hi, honey, cause dere ain t been no use for me
at de house since de stablishment was broked up,
arter old Marse Cappin La Compte died, an de
young ladies went to Washington to lib long o deir
gardeen. Dat was about twenty years ago, honey.
And all we young women servants w^hat belonged
to de house w r as hired out at warious places, and
only two or free old grannies left to look arter it,
dough all de men field hands and fishermen and
blacksmiths and carpenters, yer know, honey was
left on de state, cause deir work was to be done,
whedder or no, fambily or no fambily."

"And have you been twenty years in this ser
vice?"

"No, honey, not quite. Only bout seben, I reckon.
I was hired out at private service before that."

"Do you like this life?"

"I used to, honey, but I s gettin tired of it. An
I s wishin for the time to come when my young
mist ess, Miss Delia Werry, will come ob age or get
married, so as to come and lib at home, an hab her
colored people about her like oder ladies, I do."

Gloria felt extremely interested in this old fam
ily servant of her ancestors whom she had so unex
pectedly met in the cabin of the steamboat, and so,
without revealing her own identity to the woman,
she encouraged her to talk of La Compte s Landing

GLORIA 229

and the old people who had lived there in times
past. And as "Long Laweeny" had so interested
a listener she became very diffuse in her revelations.

"They do say, Miss, that the first founder ob de
family in dese parts was a brave ole sea-king, what
his inimies and back-biters called a booknear or
pirate, and how he buried whole shiploads of gold
and silver about dese here shores an islands, which,
if dat same treasure would be foun , it would make
de people what owns de lan s as rich as Jews. But
I don t know as to de trufe of it."

These and many other tales and legends of the
old family did Long Laweeny relate to her attentive
listener, and so whiled away the time until a late
hour, when Gloria thanked the woman for the en
tertainment and retired to her state-room.

Though the mind of the girl was deeply disturbed
by the novelty of her present position, and the un
certainty of her future fate, she did not lie long
awake, but rocked by the motion of the boat, soon
fell sound asleep and slept profoundly until she
was awakened by the movements of the stewardess
bustling about the cabin and setting it in order.

On first opening her eyes she felt surprise and
fear on finding herself in the berth of a state-room
on a rocking steamboat; but instantly she remem
bered the rash step that had placed her in this po
sition, and her soul was filled with dismay. For a
moment she repented her reckless flight, and con
templated remaining on the steamer under the pro
tection of Long Laweeny, and returning with it on
its next down voyage to her home. Only for a mo
ment did she think of such an alternative to going
on and completing her other purpose. The vision

230 GLORIA

of her uncle and his importunities frightened her
from all idea of going back.

"No!" she said to herself, "I cannot trust him.
I can trust David Lindsay."

In the spirit of this trust she met her old play
mate on deck.

He, too, had had his deep sleep of oblivion and
his wakening to astonishment and perplexity. But
no instant s doubt of his future course disturbed his
mind; he was devoted to his lady s service, and de
termined to do her will. In this spirit of loyalty
he received her on deck.

The wind had shifted to the northwest and
cleared the sky of every cloud ; but it was now blow
ing dead ahead, and so the boat had both wind and
current against her, and her upward progress was
slow.

Gloria and David had spent the day on deck,
only leaving it to go to breakfast, dinner and sup
per in the saloon.

After supper they separated, as before, at the
head of the companion-way leading down into the
ladies cabin, where Gloria spent the evening in
drawing out Long Laweeny to talk of the old La
Comptes until bed-time, when she retired to her
berth. The same evening David spent in talking to
the officer of the deck until the hour came which re
lieved the latter, and drew the former to the saloon
state-room, which he shared with a country store
keeper.

It was sunset when she entered the mouth of the
Potomac and near daylight when she reached Wash
ington.

When Gloria awoke that morning the first thing
that struck her was the stillness of the steamer,

GLORIA 31

and the next a small fleet of oyster-boats, a crowded
wharf, and a row of dingy warehouses all seen
through the window of her state-room as soon as she
slid back the shutter.

Then she dressed quickly, for she knew the boat
was at Washington.

But again she was seized with that panic of
dread which had temporarily overcome her on her
awakening on the previous morning. Again she
felt the impulse to fly from her purpose and return
to her home while there was yet time. But the
vision of her uncle in his madness arose before her
mind s eye and checked her impulse.

"No, I cannot trust him ! I cannot trust myself !
but I can trust David Lindsay!" she said, as she
completed her toilet, put her little personal effects
into her traveling-bag, and went up on deck.

David Lindsay received her there and led her at
once to the saloon, where the passengers were al
ready at breakfast. She, being the only lady, re
ceived much attention. Her seat had been kept for
her, and dainties were pressed upon her; but so
troubled was her spirit at the prospect of her fate,
that she could only swallow a little coffee and make
a pretence of eating.

When the counterfeit meal was over, she arose
from the table, bowed to her fellow-passengers, and
left the saloon, attended by David Lindsay.

"We may go on shore at once. I had already en
gaged a carriage when you first came on deck," said
the young man, as he led her across the gang-plank
from the wharf, where the hack was waiting.

He handed her in, saw her comfortably seated,
and followed and placed himself opposite to her.

"Where to, if you please, sir?" inquired the hack-

GLORIA

man, touching his hat, as he held the door open in
his hand.

"Wait a moment," replied young Lindsay; and
then he bent forward and whispered to Gloria :

"You have been here before, and know the place.
What hotel do you prefer ?"

"Uncle and I stopped at Brown s. It was good
enough, I suppose. I know nothing about the oth
ers, except that some of them looked better on the
outside," replied Gloria.

"Brown s Hotel," was the order the young man
gave to the hack-driver, who remounted to his box
and drove off.

David Lindsay had never been in any city in his
life, and, therefore, he was much more pleased with
his first sight of Washington than strangers usually
are.

"There is the Capitol !" he exclaimed, looking out
of the window on the east side. "I know it by the
picture, which is very faithful," he added.

"Yes," replied Gloria, scarcely knowing what she
said, so troubled was her spirit.

The youth looked at her wistfully, doubtfully,
sorrowfully. Then he dropped his eyes and voice
to the deepest expression of reverential tenderness,
and said:

"Miss de la Vera, do you repent this trust you are
about to repose in me? If you do, oh, speak ! I am
yours to do you service. To secure your happiness
in any way I may be permitted to do so! To at
tend you all through life, if I may be so blessed
or, if not, to take you safely wherever you would go,
and leave you forever, if this should be your will,"
he added, as his voice broke down with emotion.

She answered him by asking another question :

GLORIA 233

"David Lindsay, do you really love me love me
as you said you did that morning after you saved
my life, when you did not know I heard you? Say,
do you really love me as much as you said then?"
she breathed, in accents scarcely audible.

"Do I love you? How do I love you? How can
I tell you! I have 110 words to tell you! But I
know that I could live for you, work for you, suffer
for you, yes, Heaven knows, I could give my body
to be burned for you, if that could insure your wel
fare. And because I love you so much more than I
can tell you, I repeat now that I am yours to do
your will, whatever it may be ; yours to attend you
through life if I am to be so happy, or yours to
take you to some place of safety wherever you
would go, and leave you there forever, at your com
mand. Dearest lady, you have only to command."

She was weeping heartily now.

He gently repeated his words :

"You have only to command."

"I cannot command anybody! Not even my
self!" she sobbed.

"What shall I do to console you? Did I not hear
that Madame de Crespigney, the colonel s old
mother, was in Washington? Shall I inquire for
her and take you there, and leave you under her
protection?" he asked, turning pale at the thought
of what her answer might be, though no other sign,
not even a falter in his voice, betrayed his inward
agitation.

"No !" exclaimed Gloria. "Take me there? W T hy,
uncle would follow me. He would not compel me
to return with him, but he would persuade me.
Uncle masters my will when he pleads with me,
and if I return to his power he may some time, in

234 GLORIA

some paroxysm of his own distress, in some moment
of my own idiotic pity, induce me to become his
wife, and then, when I should have done so, I should
go mad, and kill him or myself. No no no! I
must put an eternal barrier between uncle and my
self. David Lindsay, I cannot trust my uncle. I
cannot trust myself. I can only trust you. Say no
more about taking me anywhere but before some
minister of the gospel. And" ( "don t make me do
all the courting," she was about to add, but some
subtile intuition warned her that she must not turn
her tragic situation into jest, even with her trusted
and faithful friend.)

The carriage, meanwhile, had rolled on to Penn
sylvania Avenue, and now it drew up before
"Brown s."

"Tell him to drive to the Ladies Entrance," whis
pered Gloria, who saw that she would have to
prompt her untraveled escort.

The order was given and obeyed.

David handed his companion down to the pave
ment, and paid and discharged the carriage.

"Ask to be shown to the ladies parlor. I can re
main there until you go and find some minister, and
yes, it will be necessary for you to get a license
from the register s office at the City Hall," she con
tinued, in a whisper, as they followed an obsequious
waiter to an upper front drawing-room that over
looked the avenue.

Gloria threw herself into a chair. There hap
pened to be no other occupants of the parlor, though
people, either the inmates of the house or visitors,
might enter at any time.

"Will you want rooms, sir? The office is below,"
suggested the waiter.

GLORIA 235

David Lindsay hesitated and looked at Gloria,
who murmured :

"No, do not take rooms yet. You would have to
register our names, and that would be awkward
just now. Wait until afterwards."

"We do not want rooms, but will take luncheon
about noon," said the young man, turning to the
waiter, who then left them and went about his busi
ness.

"How will you occupy yourself while I am gone?"
inquired David Lindsay, uneasily.

"Oh, you needn t be away half an hour. I shall
stand here and look out of the window," she an
swered, taking up her post.

The young man left the room.

She did not stand there long, for again some
nameless horror of her position, and dread of conse
quences, seized upon her soul, and drove her to
walking rapidly up and down the floor, muttering
to herself :

"Was ever a wretched human being driven to
such extremity as I am? Is there any way out of
my trouble except through this strange marriage,
and am I, all this time, so insane, as I suspect I am,
that I cannot see it? Even David Lindsay pro
posed to take me to old Madame de Crespigney, and
David Lindsay worships me, poor boy, that I know !
But I cannot go to Madame de Crespigney ! I can
not go anywhere where Marcel could follow me and
subdue me by his pleadings, and draw me to my
own destruction and to his ! I cannot trust Marcel !
I cannot trust myself ! I can only trust David Lind
say ! And he is no clown, if he is a poor fisherman !
See how he has improved himself. He talks as well
as uncle does, though he may not be able to speak

236 GLORIA

on so many different subjects. But, oh, Heaven,
what is all this to the main question? That I should
be obliged to marry any one to save myself from
uncle and from my own heart! I don t want to
marry ! I don t ! I don t ! I don t ! I never did wish
to marry ! I never meant to, either ! But if I must,
I would rather trust David Lindsay than any one
I know/

So, muttering to herself, she paced rapidly up
and down the floor until the entrance of other ladies
into this public parlor arrested her murmuring com
plaints, though not her steps, for she continued to
walk about the floor, stopping only once in a while
to look out of the windows.

Several of the occupants of the room noticed the
pale, sorrowful, and restless "child," for such they
took her to be, and formed their own theories of
her distress. She was doubtless on her way to
school, after her Christmas holidays, and was suf
fering from the separation from home and friends.
But these people had their own affairs on their
minds, and so could bestow but little attention on
the troubles of the supposed homesick school-girl,
whom they hoped to see presently taken care of by
her parent, or guardian, or some other responsible
person who had come with her as her escort.

For more than an hour Gloria walked restlessly
about, or gazed from the front windows, while peo
ple came and went to and from the room, whose oc
cupants were thus always changing.

Then at length David Lindsay returned. She
drew him to a distant window, out of the hearing of
all others, that he might give an account of him
self.

"I was longer than you thought I should be, be-

GLORIA

cause I had to wait some time in the register s office
before I could get our license. Afterwards I had
to inquire out the residences of clergymen, and I
called at several before I could find any one disen
gaged. At length I found one at leisure the Rev.
Mr. O Halloran, at St. Matthew s church. He will
meet us there immediately/ 7 whispered David Lind
say.

Gloria began to tremble visibly.

"Are you ready?" inquired the young man.

"Yes," she answered, in a tone scarcely above
her breath.

He gave her his arm and led her forth, down the
stairs and out of the house, to the carriage that
stood waiting for them before the door.

In another moment they were bowling rapidly up
the avenue and turning into a cross street. A ten
minutes drive brought them to old St. Matthew s.
He helped her from the carriage and led her into
the church, at whose lighted altar stood the priest
in his vestments, attended by one or two sac
ristans.

In the front pew nearest the altar were three
women at their devotions.

As these were not the hours of public worship,
there were no other persons in the church. Gloria
wondered to see these present, but was too much
troubled with other thoughts to speak of the cir
cumstance.

David Lindsay, however, voluntarily enlightened
her.

"I told the priest, in answer to his questions, that
we had no witnesses to bring with us. He then
said that he would have to provide them. I sup
pose he has done so, and these are they," he whis-

238 GLORIA

pered, as he led his trembling companion up the
aisle to the chancel.

Two hassocks had been placed on the floor before
the altar railings. Upon these they knelt.

The priest opened his book and began the cere
mony forthwith.

The women in the front pew left their seats and
drew near enough to hear the low responses of the
bridegroom and the bride.

The ceremony must have been relieved from all
unnecessary forms, for it was very short, and very
soon over.

"I pronounce you man and wife. Those whom
God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."

The concluding words of the sacred marriage-
rites, uttered in the sweet and solemn tones of the
officiating priest, fell upon the ears of the unhappy
girl like the knell of doom.

The benediction was then pronounced, and the
young pair arose from their knees.

CHAPTER XVIII

BRIDE AND GROOM

Wedded fast were we.

E. B. BROWNING.

"SALUTE your wife," said the priest.

The young bridegroom turned to his wife his
face all glorious with the noblest love that ever in
spired the soul of a world-renowned poet or warrior
and took her hand and drew her to his heart and
bowed his head to offer her the customary kiss that

GLORIA 239

was to seal the ceremony just performed between
them.

She did not yield him her lips she did not even
leave him her hand, but shuddered and coldly with
drew herself.

David Lindsay turned deadly pale.

The priest and the witnesses looked surprised.
Such an exhibition of unkindness, not to say rude
ness, they had never seen in all their experience.

"Come into the vestry, if you please," then said
the priest.

David Lindsay, struck to the heart by his bride s
repulsion, recovered himself by an effort, drew her
arm within his own and followed the clergyman.

The two sacristans and the three witnesses
brought up the rear.

The parish register lay open on the table.

The newly married pair were now required to
sign their names.

David Lindsay steadied himself and wrote his in
clear characters.

Gloria s hand shook so in her attempt to write
that the scratches and blotches she made might
have meant anything or nothing.

The witnesses affixed their signatures, and the
deed was done.

Then David Lindsay courteously thanked the
priest and shook hands with him, leaving in his
palm a very liberal fee.

Finally, he drew the arm of his bride under his
own to lead her forth.

As he led her down the aisle, on their way out of
the church, some whispered words among the three
women who had witnessed their marriage, and who
now followed close behind them, fell on his ears.

240 GLORIA

"A runaway match, as sure as you are born, and
the girl repents already. She looks like death, she
does/ said one woman.

"She s scared nearly out of her wits for fear her
father or somebody will be after her," said another.

"I declare I don t know how any conscientious
minister of the gospel ever can find it in his mind
to marry a runaway couple and such children as
these are, too. I must say, I am astonished at Mr.
O Halloran !" added the third woman.

"Well, for my part," recommenced the first, "if
one of my daughters should be so lost to all sense
of propriety as to go off with any young man, I
should be exceedingly thankful to the first minister,
or even magistrate, who should tie them lawfully
together."

"To be sure, there is something in that, which I
never thought of before," answered the caviler.

David Lindsay drew his trembling companion on
faster, in order to escape hearing any more of these
unpleasant comments.

He took her out and put her in the carriage,
stepped in, and seated himself by her side and or
dered the hack to drive back to the hotel.

"Gloria, dear Gloria, my own dearest lady," he
began, as he took one of her frozen hands.

"DON T speak to me! DON T touch me!" she ex
claimed, snatching her hand from his gentle hold,
pulling her veil over her face, and tucking her head
down in a corner of the cushions.

"Ah ! what have I done to offend you, lady?" he
pleaded.

"BE SILENT, I say ! And keep your hands to your
self, unless you wish to kill me! But you may do

GLORIA

that one thing ! You may kill me, if you like ! I
wish you would !"

"Great Heaven ! Gloria, what is the matter with
you?"

"I am crazy ! crazy ! I told you I was crazy ! And
if you do not leave me alone I shall go raving mad !"
she wildly exclaimed, and then pushed her head
down in the cushions again, as if she would shut out
all sight of earth and heaven.

David Lindsay sank back in his seat and turned
deadly pale as he asked himself the question :

What had he done to offend and alienate her?
To fill her mind with such abhorrence of himself?
He had obeyed her in everything. He had conse
crated his life to her happiness. True, she was a
rich heiress, and he was but a poor boy ; yet ? if their
cases had been reversed, and he had been the
wealthy man and she the poor girl, he felt that he
would equally have consecrated his life to her. He
loved her with his whole being, and since she had
condescended to him, he had hoped finally to be
come more worthy of her, and to win her love; for
deep down in his soul he felt the prophecy that he
should become worthy of her

"Worthy as a king."

But ever since, at the priest s command, he had
offered her the bridegroom s kiss, she had shrunk
from him in loathing.

Was it possible after all, that the mind of hife be
loved was unbalanced? That her reason was de
ranged, and had been so at the time she had made
her strange marriage proposal to him? Had he
himself been culpably hasty, even criminally reck-

GLORIA

less, in his acceptance of her offered hand? Had
he unconsciously taken advantage of a poor child s
lunacy to make her his wife?

Indeed, the present aspect of affairs looked as if
this must be the case. And if so, what earthly
amends could he make her? How atone for the deep
wrong he had done her?

These were terrible questions, that he could in no
way answer.

While they still tortured his soul, the carriage
drew up before the hotel, and the coachman left his
seat on the box and came down and opened the door.

Gloria s face was still tucked down out of sight
in the corner of the carriage.

"Come, lady, we have arrived," the young bride
groom whispered, in a gentle and deprecating tone.

She pulled her veil down closer over her face,
doubling it so that not a feature could be seen, and
then allowed him to take her hand and assist her
from the carriage.

David Lindsay, in his distress, forgot to pay the
hackman and discharge the hack. But that func
tionary jogged the memory of his employer and re
ceived his own dues.

Then young Lindsay led his companion into the
house and up to the ladies parlor, when she left
his arm and hurried away by herself to a corner,
where she sat down in a large chair and hid her
head in its back cushions.

Meanwhile David Lindsay went down stairs and
registered their names and engaged rooms.

When this was done he came back to the parlor,
accompanied by a waiter with a couple of keys in
his hand.

Leaving this man at the cLoor z laden with the two

GLORIA

traveling-bags which had been pointed out, David
Lindsay approached Gloria and whispered :

"A waiter is here to take up your bag and show
you to your room. Will you go now, and will you
have some tea, or whatever you prefer, sent up to
you?"

She did not answer by one word, but, shuddering,
arose, peeped through a fold of her veil, and, seeing
the waiter at the door, walked towards him.

The man nodded, and led the way to a small suite
of rooms on the same floor, consisting of a little
parlor, chamber and bath-room.

He opened these and put down the bags, and then
struck a match and set fire to the kindlings already
piled in the grates ready for ignition.

Having performed these duties he turned to the
lady and inquired :

"Any more orders, madam?"

"Madam!" echoed the girl, with bitter scorn,
though in so low a tone that the word was nearly
inaudible. "No, I want nothing; but, yes, you may
bring me a cup of tea. My throat is as parched as a
desert/ 7

The waiter nodded and went out.

"Now, what have I done!" exclaimed Gloria, as
she tore off her gloves, her hat, and her sack, and
threw them angrily on the bed. "Now, what have
I done ! Oh, Marcel ! I will never, never, no, NEVER
forgive you for driving me to this pass ! Oh ! how
I hate you ! How I hate you for this, Marcel ! And
I hate David Lindsay! And I hate myself worse
than all ! My odious self ! I hate everybody ! And
I wish everybody was dead ! I do !" she cried, fling
ing herself down on the floor, and rolling and cry
ing like a passionate child.

GLORIA

It is of no use to repeat all her ravings.

David Lindsay was more than half right in his
surmises, and Gloria was really more than half in
sane.

She was still rolling and crying on the carpet,
when the shuffling steps of the waiter approaching
the door, caused her to start up in time to answer
his knock.

She placed herself behind the door, opened it,
put out her hand and took the little tea-tray, with
out showing her own tear-stained face.

She drank the tea with eager thirst, and then sat
down the empty cup and threw herself on the sofa.

"The cup that cheers," and so forth, seemed to
do her good, and perhaps her fit of hysterical weep
ing had temporarily exhausted itself, for she wept
and raved no more, but lay, with her hands clasped
over her face, in perfect stillness.

An hour later there was a knock at her door.
She started up and opened it, and David Lindsay
entered the room.

She recoiled to the farthest corner, and sat down
and hid her head over the back of the chair.

"Do not shrink from me. Indeed I will not in
trude my presence on you more than is absolutely
necessary," he began, in low and deprecating tones.

But she shuddered and shrank into herself, more
fearfully than ever.

He sat down at some little distance from her,
sighed heavily, because he could not help doing so,
drew out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped
his forehead, which was beaded with a cold moist
ure, and paler now than it had ever been in his life
before.

"I only wished to discover, if indeed I can do so,

GLORIA 245

through you, whether you really knew what you
were about when you came to me on the beach, when
you accompanied me to the city here, and when you
gave me your hand in the church?"

These words acted upon the motionless form with
more power than a galvanic battery on a corpse.

She sprang from her seat to the middle of the
floor and, confronting him with a wild and agonized
face, she exclaimed :

"No, I did not know what I was doing! I was
mad mad mad ! arid you ought to have known
that I was mad to have done such an unheard-of
thing. Oh, David Lindsay, if you ever loved me,
have pity on me now and leave me ! If you have a
spark of mercy in your soul, grant my prayer, and
leave me. If you have the least instinct of honor,
do not insist on keeping the position that my act
has given you. If you are a man and not a mon
ster, and not a maniac, leave me and never let me
see your face again."

He gazed on her in anguish and amazement.
Then he arose from his chair, crossed over to the
fireplace, and stood upon the corner of the hearth,
with his elbow leaning on the mantel-shelf, and his
hand supporting his forehead. His eyes were fixed
upon the floor, his face was white as death, and
looked older by a dozen years than it should be.
Yet he was very firm and patient. Boy as he was
but a few months past his twenty-first birthday
he could never descend to the weakness of pleading
his suit, and playing upon the sympathies of his
beloved, as older and wiser men have done, and still
do. No. If her love could not approve him, her
pity should not accept him. He adored her with
his whole soul. He had married her, yet lie would

246 GLORIA

not persecute her with an unwelcome suit. But
neither must he leave her now, in her childishness
and helplessness. He must see her in some place
of safety, and under some proper protection.

Such were the thoughts that passed rapidly
through his mind, as he stood on the corner of the
hearth, with his elbows resting on the mantel-piece,
his head leaning on his hand, and his eyes fixed on
the floor.

"David Lindsay, will you act the part of an hon
orable man, and leave me at once and forever, or
will you stay here and drive me furious?" she de
manded again, in a voice of anguish.

"Patience for one moment, lady. I will leave
you as far as the next room and never cross this
threshold again. This chamber shall be your sanc
tuary. I will occupy the parlor. But I cannot
leave you alone and unprotected in a strange city,
dear. I must be on hand to take care of you, if
needful. You are frightened now, Gloria. There
is no need to be. I will not intrude. But we must
have time to think what we shall next do."

He spoke very gently.

And now she was weeping aloud.

He left the room at once.

"Oh ! what a selfish and cruel wretch I am ! What
a change has come over me! I have turned into a
demon ! I must be a demon to hate those who love
me! To hate them for loving me! Oh, I wish I
were dead ! I wish I had never lived !" she sobbed,
throwing herself down upon the sofa in an agony
of self-reproach and self-loathing.

David Lindsay walked up and down in the ad
joining room, his steps noiseless on the soft carpet.
He was sorely perplexed in mind and distressed at

GLORIA 247

heart, only certain of two obligations resting upon

him not to intrude on her privacy, yet not to de
sert her in her weakness and distraction. She w r as
but a child, he felt, a child who had grown up under
very peculiar circumstances, so that she must not
be judged as ordinary children or young girls. And
what a heavenly child she had been! How full of
love, how free from selfishness! Now she seemed
indeed to have been driven into a state akin to in
sanity. Had he, her old playmate, who loved her
better than his own life, had any hand in this? He
could not think so. He, with all his honesty of in
quiry, could not see any other way than that they
had taken to save her from an odious marriage,
w T hich her religious faith would have condemned
even if her own heart had not revolted against it
a marriage into which she could not have been com
pelled, of course, but into which she might have
been, through her pity, persuaded. Now she was
safe, at least from that danger.

Meanwhile, what was now his duty to her?

Not to intrude on her, and not to abandon her,
certainly.

But afterwards?

He now remembered all that she had told him,
while they sat together on the steamboat deck, con
cerning her father s will, and how, on her attaining
the age of eighteen, or on her marriage, she was to
enter upon the possession of her estate, and the au
thority of her guardian was to cease ; that this will
had been made in Washington city, and recorded
in the office of the Eegister of Wills.

He determined to go thither and examine the
document for himself.

He rapped gently at Gloria s door.

248 GLORIA

"What do you want?" she inquired, in smothered
tones.

"I am going out for an hour. Shall I send any
one to you? 7

u No, thanks ; I want nothing."

He turned away and went down stairs and out
of the house, and bent his steps to the City Hall.

On inquiring of the proper officers he obtained a
view of the folio containing the record of the testa
ment he sought. Having read it over, he thought he
saw his way clearly enough towards placing his
young bride in her own house, surrounded by her
own servants, and safe from any annoyance from
her late guardian. But he concluded that it would
be better to take a lawyer s opinion.

He had noticed, as he came along that morning,
almost every front basement on the north side of
Louisiana Avenue, opposite the City Hall, to be the
office of some attorney-at-law.

He therefore knew where to go to look for one.

He left the building and crossed the street, but
went into at least a dozen places without finding
any one disengaged. At length, however, he paused
before the last and plainest on the block, which
bore the sign : "Patrick McLoughlin, Attorney and
Counsellor at Law. 7

He entered a shabby little room, where a very
young and briefless lawyer sat at a dusty desk, and
seemed to have no heavier labor on hand than the
perusal of the morning paper.

To this young fellow David Lindsay introduced
himself, and stated his case, omitting only two cir
cumstances that the marriage proposal had come
from the lady herself, and that immediately after
the ceremony she had repulsed him. The knowledge

GLORIA 249

of these unusual facts was, however, not at all
essential to the right understanding of the situa
tion.

The young Irishman, with all the ardor and
frankness of his race, heartily congratulated his
client on having so successfully run away with an
heiress; for that was the light in which he viewed
the affair. He made no pretense of being busy, but
announced himself ready to attend Mr. Lindsay at
once. They crossed over together to the City Hall,
and went to the Registrar s office, where McLough-
liri read the recorded will, while David Lindsay
stood by. Then he closed the folio with a rap,
clapped his client on the shoulder, and exclaimed :

"That s all right! Take the lady home to the
finest house she possesses, my dear fellow, and tell
the old guardian, if he comes bothering around, to
go to the divil ; his consent was not necessary !"

Not very elegant language to couch a lawyer s
opinion in; but McLoughlin has improved since
then, and now you would hardly find a more digni
fied man at the Washington bar than he is.

The young lawyer thought he had found a "big
bonanza" in this fortunate young fellow, who had
married an heiress, and so he charged him fifty
dollars for his advice. ( He w r ould charge five hun
dred for the same service now, bless you.)

David Lindsay paid the fee without demur; but
he was appalled, it reduced his funds so alarmingly
low. He had left home with only two hundred dol
lars the accumulated savings of ten or twelve
years. Traveling expenses, and clergymen s and
lawyer s fees had reduced it to less than a hundred
already, and this circumstance warned him that he
must lose no time in stopping expenses at the hotel,

250 GLORIA

but must take Gloria to her home, while yet he had
the means of doing so for he was resolved that he
would not draw upon her resources.

He took leave of young McLoughlin and walked
rapidly towards their hotel.

He went up stairs to their private parlor and
rapped at her door.

"Well?" she said, in a subdued voice.

"Will you come out, dear, and let me speak to
you?"

"Yes," she murmured, in a low tone; and pres
ently she appeared, closed the door behind her, and
sat down on the nearest chair. She did not wait
for him to speak, but, with a dry sob, commenced :

"David Lindsay, I am a lost spirit an evil spirit.
I cannot help that. I have treated you unpardon-
ably. I cannot help that, either I- "

"Do not reproach yourself, dear. There is no
thought in my heart that reproaches you," he an
swered, gently, as he stood with his back to the win
dow and with his eyes cast down, so that she should
not see the trouble that he could not entirely banish
from his face.

"Ah, but I do and must. I feel how wickedly,
yes, how basely I have acted towards you, David
Lindsay, and am still acting, and must still act;
but I cannot help it ! I cannot help anything. W T e
must part, David Lindsay."

"I know it, dear," he answered, in as steady tones
as he could command, for he knew her sympathetic
nature, and knew how much she would suffer from
compassion if she should see him suffer. "I know
we must part. It would be scarcely natural, scarce
ly possible, that you should love me, to live with
me. The ceremony of this morning must go for

GLORIA 251

nothing, so far as I am concerned, but just this
to be a shield and defence about you, to protect
you from your guardian s suit and from your own
heart s weakness that is all. When you are older
and stronger, and able to do without it, the empty
ceremony of this morning can be set aside, an
nulled for, Gloria, the marriage rites, so sacred
between souls that are already one, w T as but an idle
and empty ceremony between you and me, and is
good for nothing but a temporary defence to your
helplessness. It has given me a husband s right to
protect you before the world, Gloria, but I shall
use it only as a brother. As a brother, I will escort
you to your own home, Gloria, and establish you
there."

"And then?" she inquired, in a voice scarcely
above her breath.

"Then, dear, I will bid you good-bye, when I see
vou safe."

CHAPTER XIX

LOVE WITHOUT SELF-LOVE

Stand up! Look below!
It is my life at thy feet I throw,
To step with into light and joy!
Not a power of life but I ll employ

BROWNING.

"GRYPHYNSHOLD ! Take me to Gryphynshold !
that is the most remote of all the manors left me
by my father. Take me there, for I wish to go as
far as possible from all the people I ever knew be-

252 GLORIA

fore !" said Gloria, in reply to David Lindsay s sug
gestion that he should convey her to some one of
her houses as to a place of refuge.

They were still sitting together, where we left
them, in the private parlor of the hotel, on the after
noon of the day of their marriage.

They were now conversing in a quiet and friendly
manner on the subject of their approaching de
parture, for they had resolved to leave Washington
the same evening.

Gloria was much more composed now than she
had ever been since the hour of her marriage; for
David Lindsay had assured her that he should never
presume on the position she had given him, even to
enter her presence uninvited.

She had, from their childhood up, always loved
and trusted him, and now that he had given her
this promise, she implicitly believed him, and dis
missed all her disquieting doubts.

David Lindsay, meanwhile, magnanimously re
pressed all exhibition of the bitter mortification and
sorrow he experienced. He knew his little play
mate too well to blame her. He knew her better
than any one else in the world better than she
knew herself. The poor little hunted and helpless
fawn had flown to him for refuge, and he would
succor her in the way she pleased, not in the way
he had wished.

She had chosen her place of refuge, and he would
take her there.

"Gryphynshold," he slowly repeated, when she
had named the selected point of destination. "What
a savage and gloomy name, dear! Where is that?"

"The name is not more gloomy and savage than

GLORIA 253

the place, I fear. It is situated in the extreme south
western part of Virginia, on or near the point of
juncture with North Carolina and Tennessee. It is
said to be the most ancient building in all that re
gion of country; it was erected in a gorge of the
Iron Mountains by an eccentric and misanthropical
Welshman named Dyvyd-ap-Gryphyn, said by some
annalists to have been an outlaw in his own coun
try and a refugee in this. However that might have
been, or whether he had any legal right to the land
or not, there, in the most terrific yawning abyss of
the mountain range, he built a rude stronghold of
heavy rock and ponderous timber, and called it
Gryphynshold ; and there he lived, supporting him
self by hunting and fishing, like any other savage
denizen of the wilderness, and there at length he
married an Indian girl of the Cherokee tribe. From
that marriage sprang the race of Gryphyns a
proud, surly, ferocious race of men, the bane of each
other, and the terror of their neighborhood."

"It is to be devoutly hoped that they were not a
very numerous tribe," said David Lindsay.

"No. I have heard Aunt Agrippina say that there
was never more than one child born of any mar
riage, and that was always a son. Strange, wasn t
it, from generation to generation, only one son to
succeed his father?"

"Very strange; yet it precluded all possibility of
law-suits among the heirs. But how came this ill-
omened property into your father s hands, my dear
little lady?" inquired David Lindsay, in a playful
tone, assumed to hide the heartache that was tor
turing him.

"Oh, it was a dreadful, dreadful story. I do not
know the details of it. But Mr. Dyvjd Gryphyn,

GLORIA

the last descendant of the Welsh outlaw who
founded the family, seems to have been a demon in
human form, more haughty, surly, cruel and furious
than any of his evil predecessors, yet withal as
demoniacally beautiful and fascinating as Lucifer,
Son of the Morning. After the death of his father,
who was killed in a tavern broil, and of his mother,
who dropped dead of heart disease on hearing the
news for all these handsome and ferocious demons
seemed to have been fondly loved by their unfortu
nate wives Dyvyd Gryphyn left Gryphynshold on
a tour of Europe. After an absence of three years
he returned home, bringing with him a young
woman, said to have been fairer than the fairest
lily, more blooming than the rosiest rose. He loved
her with the surly, jealous, cruel love of his nature
and the nature of his fathers, which seems to be
not so much love as a devouring and consuming-
fire, the curse and ruin of all upon whom it chanced
to fall. And she loved him with that fatality of de
votion which was the doom of all the women ever
chosen by the ill men of the race. She was content
to bury herself with him in that savage solitude,
remote from all human kind ; yet he did not seclude
himself, but rode forth to distant towns and vil
lages, and remained away for days and weeks to
gether. Sometimes he would bring a party of men
home with him, and they would hunt or fish all day,
and carouse all night. But he never let any of them
see his hidden beauty, who lived as isolated in her
dreary prison as any enchanted princess in a fairy
castle, until one night, in the midst of a midnight
orgie, when his reckless companions were all mad
with drink, and he himself was maddest of all, he
sent and summoned her to the feast. The poor

GLORIA 255

thing wasTiot a Queen Vashti, so she obeyed the
drunken mandate, and came down. I do not know
what happened there what she was forced to see
and bear and hear but that she was grieved,
shocked and terrified beyond all endurance is cer
tain, for as soon as she could break away and es
cape from the fiendish crew, she fled to the top of
the house and hid herself, in a state of delirious
terror."

Gloria paused and shuddered.

"What became of the poor young woman?" in
quired David Lindsay.

"I do not know. No one knows what finally be
came of her. The party of revellers broke up the
next morning and Dyvyd Gryphyn rode with them
to the next town and remained absent for a day,
during which the poor little soul at home grew
quieter."

Again Gloria paused, and David Lindsay in
quired :

"And was there a reconciliation between this ill-
sorted pair?"

"I do not know. I never even heard whether he
saw her again on the morning after the orgie, or
whether he took leave of her before setting out on
his journey with the revellers. She grew very quiet
in his absence."

Once more Gloria sank into silence. Once more
the young man prompted her to continue, saying :

"Well, and when this demon of Gryphynshold
came back?"

"Oh, David Lindsay, what next happened is so
horrible so horrible that I shrink from speaking
of it," she said, with a shudder.

"Then do not, lady dear," he answered, gently.

256 GLORIA

"Oh, but I must! It is on my mind and it must
out ! I have heard that he came back in the middle
of a January night a bitter cold, freezing night.
His face, they say, was as black as a thunder cloud,
and his eyes flashed like lightning. Without deign
ing a word to one of the servants, who came to at
tend him, he strode at once to the chamber of his
poor young victim and ordered her to get up and
dress herself, for she should leave his house that
night !"

"What an unheard-of monster !" exclaimed David
Lindsay.

"Oh, what a wretched maniac ! for no man in his
senses would have acted with such causeless cruel
ty. In vain the poor creature pleaded to know what
she had done to offend him. He only cursed hei
and threatened to throw her from the window un
less she dressed and departed at once. In vain she
wept and begged to stay till morning. He told her,
with many fierce curses, that by this delay she only
trifled with his temper and her own life. Oh ! oh,
David Lindsay, he thrust that delicate creature
forth in the freezing air of that bitter January
night to perish on the mountains!" exclaimed
Gloria, who had forgotten all her own troubles in
recalling this horrible story.

"And did she so perish?" mournfully inquired
the young man.

"I do not know. Some weeks from that night a
party of hunters found the dead body of a woman
on the mountain; but the birds of prey had found
it first and it was unrecognizable! Oh, it is all too,
too hideous! It was supposed to be the body of
Dyvyd Gryphyn s victim, and, as she was never
heard of afterwards, it probably was hers."

GLORIA 257

"And what became of the madman? You were
right in calling him a maniac, Gloria, for such he
certainly must have been. You said that he was the
last owner of Gryphynshold, therefore he must be
dead. How did he die?"

"Ah, like nearly all his fierce race! A violent
death! On the very day after he had thrust his
poor little white slave out into the winter night, he
himself fell in a duel with one of the reckless com
panions of his demoniac orgies of that terrible night
when he commanded the hidden beauty to come
into their abhorrent presence."

"Killed in a duel at last," muttered David Lind
say to himself.

"Yee, and with him perished the last of the evil
race of the Gryphyns of Gryphynshold."

"How came your father to purchase such an ill-
omened piece of property?"

"It was advertised to be sold for taxes. Then an
heir turned up in a Welsh baronet, who spelled Ms
name in the more modern and civilized manner of
G-r-i-f-f-i-n, but who was of the same original Welsh,
stock, the next of kin, and the heir-at-law, though a
very, very, very distant cousin. This gentleman did
not want this mountain property, and so, as soon
as his claim to it was established, he threw the es
tate into the market, and my father bought it."

"What could have induced Count de la Vera to
buy suck a place?"

"He was looking around for opportunities to in
vest his money in Virginia lands, being determined
to become a citizen of the United States. He thought
the Iron Mountain must be rich in the ore that
gave it its name, and rich in other ores as well ; and
that this would be a source of great wealth to his

258 GLORIA

wife and children in the future, if not immediately
to himself ; for remember that my mother was living
at the time of the purchase."

"After what you have told me, dear, I question
whether that would be a desirable residence for any
one, least of all for you," said David Lindsay,
gravely.

"Oh, yes, it would. I particularly wish to go
there. Ah, I know not why, but the very savage-
ness of the place attracts me !" exclaimed Gloria.

"Who is in charge of the house? Shall we find
it habitable? Will there be accommodations for
you?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so," said Gloria, answering
the last question first; "the place should be kept
up; my father purchased it just as it was, with
slaves, stock, carriage and horses, implements, fur
niture, and everything. He even retained the hired
white overseer and the housekeeper who had been
in the service of the last owner. I know that Uncle
Marcel used to receive their accounts and pay their
wages twice every year."

"So you have decided to go to Gryphynshold?"

"I have determined to go there," said Gloria,
firmly.

"Then I must get a map and trace out our course
as well as I can, and afterwards inquire about
stages."

"I can tell you that ; for once during our summer
holiday trips, Marcel and I, being in this city,
planned to go and take a look at my mountain
stronghold, as he called it. So we left Washington
by the six p. M. stage-coach for Winchester; thence
to Staunton, and thence to the Greenbriar White
Sulphur Springs; but there we found the place so

GLORIA 259

attractive that we went no farther. So I know that
we must commence our journey by the stage that
leaves here at six o clock in the evening. What time
is it now? Let me see," she said, as she consulted
her diamond-studded little gold watch. "It is half-
past one. Now, please ring and order a carriage.
I must go out and buy a trunk, a work-box, a writ
ing-desk, a dressing-case, clothes, needles and
thread, stationery, combs and brushes, and all such
necessaries of a girl s life, before going into that
remote mountain wilderness. And at the same time
we can stop at the stage office and take our places."

The young man answered by ringing the bell,
and when the waiter appeared he gave the requisite
order.

Gloria went in her chamber to put on her sack
and hat.

The carriage was soon announced, and in five
minutes afterwards the young pair were rolling
along the avenue, Gloria looking out from the win
dow to watch for the signs of the shops she wished
to visit.

Presently she stopped the carriage before the door
of the only general dealer and outfitter in ladies
ready-made garments that the city then afforded.

David Lindsay left her there and went to book
their places in the Winchester stage-coach.

It took Gloria three full hours to drive from place
to place and collect all she wanted. She found
them all without leaving the avenue, however. She
had the trunk put on behind the carriage and ihe
goods all piled within it, to save time by taking
them to the hotel herself. Finally she reached her
rooms at about five o clock and spent half an hour
in diligent packing.

260 GLORIA

David Lindsay then came to take her down to
dinner, which they had scarcely finished before the
stage-coach called to claim them.

In those slow days stage-coaches did not start
exactly on time, as railway trains are supposed to
do now. I have known a stage-coach to wait twenty
minutes while John C. Calhoun and Henry Clay
leisurely finished their breakfast before taking their
seats to leave Washington at the end of a session
of Congress.

Our young pair did not keep the coach waiting.
They soon had their luggage brought down and be
stowed In the boot, and soon after found themselves
comfartably seated, the only passengers except two
returning country dealers who had been East to
purchase goods for the spring trade. This class
indeed formed the bulk of travelers at this season
of the year.

It was dark when the coach started on its long
and wearisome journey.

There was neither moon nor stars out, for the
sky was quite overclouded, so that there was no
temptation for the passengers to gaze abroad as
the stage-coach rattled over the newly macadamized
avenue on through Washington, Georgetown, Ten-
nalleytown to Eockville, where it changed horses,
and where one of the travelers left them and an
other one took his place.

When the coach started again, Gloria curled her
self up in her corner and tried to go to sleep, for
she was in no way interested in the conversation
concerning the dullness of the trade and the un-
punctuality of debtors which the country merchants
had forced upon her companion.

Hocked, or fatigued, by the rolling of the cumber-

GLORIA

some old coach, Gloria was soon fast asleep, and
she slept through the whole night, undisturbed ex
cept by the stoppage at the post-houses to change
horses.

At sunrise they reached Leesburg, where they
stopped to breakfast and to change coaches, taking
the Winchester coach.

They rode all day through the most beautiful
passes of the lesser Blue Kidge and reached Win
chester in the Valley in time for an early tea.

Here again they were to change coaches and take
the S taunt on stage.

David Lindsay would have prevailed on Gloria to
stop and rest till morning, but she was determined
to pursue her journey.

They had but an hour here before the starting of
the Staunton coach, and Gloria made the most of
her time to refresh herself by a wash and prepare
comfortably for her second night s ride.

After an excellent tea, for which their wintry
day s journey had given them a keen appetite, the
young travelers took their seats in the Staunton
coach and recommenced their journey.

And this second night, poor, disappointed David
Lindsay slept as soundly in his seat as did the will
ful beauty, Gloria, in hers.

Not even the stoppage of the coach, to change
horses, amid the flashing lights of the roadside post-
houses, or the getting off of old passengers and
climbing in of new ones succeeded in arousing them,
for if disturbed they would draw a long breath,
slightly change position, and drop asleep again.

They never opened their eyes until the stage
coach stopped at Woodstock, when the tumultuous

GLORIA

getting out of their fellow-passengers at once fully
awakened them.

Then they saw that the sun was at least an hour
high, and that the horses were being taken from
the coach before a spacious hotel in the principal
street of a country town.

"What place is this?" drowsily inquired David
Lindsay.

"Woodstock, sir, where we change horses and get
breakfast/ answered the guard.

David handed his sleepy companion from the in
side of the heavy old vehicle, and led her into a
pleasant parlor, where their fellow-travelers were
already gathered around a large, open fireplace, in
which a glorious hickory wood fire was blazing.
The party there made room for the young lady.

But she did not stay with them long. A neat
colored girl came up to her and respectfully whis
pered the question as to whether she would not like
to go to her room before breakfast.

Decidedly Gloria would like to do that very
thing. So she arose and followed the girl, who
lifted and carried the young lady s traveling-bag
to a spacious chamber over the parlor, with white
dimity window-curtains and bed-spread, and a fine
fire blazing up the open chimney-place.

The girl supplied the young traveler with warm
and cold water, fresh towels, and every other req
uisite for the toilet informing her, meantime, that
she had half an hour before breakfast

Gloria was glad. She sent for her trunk to be
brought up, and had a thoroughly refreshing toilet,
with a full change of dress.

Then, as fresh as if she had risen from a comfort
able bed, instead of coming out of a lumbering

GLORIA 263

stage-coach, she went down and joined her fellow-
travelers at a delicious breakfast of coffee, hot rolls,
buckwheat cakes, venison, quails, ham and every
dainty of the season.

After the breakfast, half their fellow-passengers
entered with them into the Staunton coach. (The
other half had diverged in various directions.)

Their way now lay down the great valley of Vir
ginia, with the Blue Eidge mountains on the east
and the Alleghanies on the west a paradise of
beauty in the summer, and a fine country even
when covered with snow, as it was n ,, in mid
winter.

By nightfall they reached Staunton.

Gloria was much fatigued, and again David
Lindsay implored her to rest for one night.

But Gloria, willful as ever, was bent upon going
on until she should reach the end of her journey.
That extreme bourn, the "Hold" in the Iron Moun
tains, on the confines of three States, possessed a
weird attraction like the lodestone, and drew her
on and on.

"It is like a place in a dream a place in a night
mare but it fascinates me all the same," she an
swered to the expostulations of David Lindsay.

After a substantial supper, finished with strong
coffee, the travelers who were to go farther took
seats in the changed coach, and began the third
night s journey towards Lexington.

Again, as before, the two young people slept
throughout the ride, only, being still more fatigued,
they slept more soundly than ever, and only awak
ened when, at sunrise, the coach drew up at the
hotel in the main street of the little town of Lex-

264 GLORIA

ington, and their fellow-passengers began to climb
over them in getting out.

Here they stopped for an hour. A refreshing
wash, a substantial breakfast, ard a brisk walk up
and down the village street, restored the strength
and spirit of the wearied young pair, so that they
re-entered the lumbering old coach without any re
maining oppression from fatigue, and well pre
pared to enjoy the day s ride through the varied
scenery of hill and dale, woods, waters, fields,
farms, towns and hamlets that diversified the val
ley that k * between the two great ranges of moun
tains. >

Towards evening the valley narrowed and the
mountains rose until the road seemed to be ap
proaching a gorge.

While there was yet light enough, David Lind
say drew a pocket map from his breast and began to
examine it.

"If our journey takes us through that yawning
chasm, I think we had better stop for the night at
the first tavern we come to," suggested the young
man, thinking more of the safety of his companion
than of his own.

"No ! where the coach can go, we can go, night
or day," persisted Gloria,

It was dusk when they reached the gap they had
seen so far before them. There was a great stone
building on a river that broke through the moun
tains at this point. The water reflected the high
precipices and the buildings with their gleaming
lights. The place was a combination of tavern,
post-house, mill and ferry.

Here they stopped to change horses and get
supper, after which the coach, with its passengers,

GLORIA 265

freight and horses, was ferried across the river to
the other side, and then it took the road beneath the
shelter of the snow-clad mountains, and kept it,
plodding along slowly for the rest of the night.

But we must not dwell too long on this pic
turesque journey.

CHAPTER XX

GRYPHYNSHOLD

But there no more shall human voice
Be heard to rage lament rejoice
The last sad note that swelled the gale
Was woman s wildest funeral wail.

BYRON.

FROM this point, however, they had left the lovely
landscape of the valley and entered as by a natural
gate into the wild mountain scenery, that, as they
went on, grew wilder, more dreary and desolate.

They were two more days and nights on the road,
stopping at irregular intervals to change horses at
wayside post-houses, located just where it was pos
sible to put them, or to breakfast, dine and sup at
roadside taverns or little village hotels, until at
the close of the fifth day from starting on their
wearisome journey, they reached a ferry on the
banks of a narrow, deep and rapid river, on the op
posite side of which arose a lofty range of dark,
cedar-covered mountains.

Here their stage journey ended.

They loft the coach, had their baggage taken, and
entered the ferry-house.

266 GLORIA

The coach, after changing horses, went on its
way.

Gloria and David Lindsay found themselves in a
homely parlor, with bare walls and bare floor, a
few flag-bottomed chairs and a pine table. The
only ornaments were a defaced looking-glass be
tween the windows and a framed picture of old-
fashioned sampler-work representing a willow-tree
over a tombstone, hung over the mantel-piece.

It was, however, heated by a roaring fire of great
cedar logs, for cedar was the most plentiful wood
in that mountain region, and it was lighted by two
tall tallow-dips in iron candlesticks.

David Lindsay drew forward a chair and placed
it before the fire for his weary companion, and then
went out to find the landlord, ferryman, or some
other responsible party.

After an absence of a few moments he came back,
and said:

"Now, dear, I have two plans to propose to you.
Choose between them. Mr. Cummings, the land
lord here, has no conveyance except a heavy wagon
drawn by mules, which he says is the safest sort
for these mountain roads, and in which he is will
ing to send us on to Gryphynshold either to-night
or to-morrow morning. The accommodations here
are very rude and plain, as you see. You may judge
what the upper rooms are by this, which I suppose
is the best. Now it is for you to decide whether to
go on to-night or to stay here and rest till morning
and take the daylight for your journey to Gryphyns
hold."

"Oh, let us go on at once ! Where the mules can
take the wagon, surely we can go," promptly re
plied Gloria.

GLORIA 267

David Lindsay went out and gave the order. His
exit was followed by the entrance of a colored girl,
who respectfully invited the young lady to go up
into a bed-room where she could lay off her wraps
and refresh herself while the supper and the wagon
were getting ready.

Gloria willingly followed her, and took the bene
fit of all her offered services.

Then, feeling much better, she slipped a piece of
money in the poor girl s hand and went down stairs,
where an excellent supper awaited them.

Whatever the mental troubles of the young pair
might be, the long journey over the snow-clad and
frozen roads, and through the pure, exhilarating air
of mid-winter had given them fine, healthy appe
tites, and they both did full justice to the coffee,
corn-bread and venison steaks that were set before
them.

Immediately after supper they entered the heavy
wagon, into which their luggage had already been
placed, and settled themselves to continue their
journey to Gryphynshold.

"Mind, Tubal," called the landlord to his negro
driver, "you take the lower road ! It is the longest,
but it is the safest."

"Yes, sar," responded the darkey.

"And when you get to the DeviPs Backbreaker be
sure to jump off and lead the mules all the way up,
or there ll be an accident. Do you mind?"

"Yes, sar."

"And when you come to Sinking Creek, be certain
to look out for the water -post, to see if it is low
enough to ford."

"Yes, sar."

"And when you get up to Peril Ledge get off and

268 GLORIA

lead the beasts again ; and mind you be very care
ful ! I don t want another broken neck broughten
back here for a crowner s quest."

"No, sar."

"Now, then, start, and mind what I tell you."

"Yes, sar/ said Tubal, and as he slowly set his
mules in motion, he muttered to himself: " Tain t
de dangers ob goin ? dere to old Grippinwolf
omphe! no! I don t mind goin dere, but as to
stayin dere all night to res de mules no, sar!
not Tubal!"

"What are you talking about, old man?" inquired
David Lindsay.

But by this time they had reached the edge of the
river, and Tubal s whole attention was engaged in
driving his mules on to the great flat ferry-boat,
upon which stood four men with very long poles
to push it over.

Nothing more was said until after they had
reached the other side and Tubal had driven the
wagon off the boat on to a road running between
the front of the precipice and the river.

"What is the matter with old Gryphynshold that
you would not stay all night in the place?" again
questioned David Lindsay, whose interest in the
ancient house had been deeply excited by the story
of the last owner.

"What de matter long ob Grippinwolf, you ax?
Now, look here, young marster, I dunno who yer is,
nor what yer arter comin up here to Grippinwolf,
whar no decent Christian hasn t been visitin in de
memory ob man ! But you jes take a fool s advice
an turn right square roun an go right straight
back whar yer come from. Don t keep on to Grip
pinwolf," said the old man, solemnly.

GLORIA 269

"Why shouldn t we go on? What is the matter
with Gryphynshold, I ask you again?" inquired
David.

"Debbil s de matter wid it, young marster, jes de
debbil ! Not as I d mind dat so much, if it war on y
de debbil, cause we read so much about him in de
catechism dat he feels like a ole acquaintance ob
ourn nateral like on y we don t want to fall in
his hands. No, I don t mind him so much; but
dere s heap wuss dan de debbil as ails old Grippin-
wolf."

"What is it, then?" inquired David, interested, in
spite of his better reason.

The old negro paused, as if to give full effect to
his words, and then solemnly replied :

"Dead people!"

" Dead people ! echoed David Lindsay, in
amazement.

"Ooome !" groaned the old man.

"How can the dead trouble the place?" inquired
the young man.

"Ooome!" groaned the negro.

"What do they do? They lie quietly in their
graves, do they not?"

"Ooome! Hush, honey! I wish dey did!"

"What do they do, then?"

Again the negro paused to give full effect to his
words, as he mysteriously replied :

"Dey walks !"

"W^alks!"

"Yes, honey, de dead people walks in Grippin-
wolf walks so continual dat dey won t let any
body else lib dere."

"Why, Mrs. Brent, the housekeeper, lives there!"

270 GLORIA

exclaimed Gloria, putting in her voice for the first
time.

"What say, honey?" inquired the negro.

"I say the housekeeper, Mrs. Brent, lives there."

"Who? Her?" exclaimed Tubal, in such a tone
of scornful denial that Gloria hastened to add :

"She does live there, does she not?"

"Ole mist ess lib in Grippinwolf? Ooome! Yer
better jes ax her to lib dere, dat s all !"

"Then the housekeeper does not live in the house,
if I understand you aright?" said Gloria, in un
pleasant surprise.

"Hi, what I tell you, honey? Nobody can t lib
dere mong de dead people!"

"What nonsense you talk, old man. Some one
must live there to take care of the house."

"Well, den, dey don t, young mist ess, an I tell
yer so good ! De ghosts has jected everybody out
ob dat house, and dey has had it all to deirseJves
dis twenty years or more."

"Then my guardian has been completely de
ceived! He has been paying a salary to a house
keeper who has abandoned her duties. And if the
house is deserted, as he says, what shall we do,
David Lindsay?" inquired Gloria, in a tone of in
dignant distress and perplexity.

"Turn right roun an go straight back whar yer
come from ! You do dat while times is good. Dat s
de wice what I gibbed yer fust, an dat s de wice
Avhat I gib yer last," said Tubal, answering for his
passenger.

"Is there no one on the place to receive us, then?"
inquired David Lindsay.

"Oh, dere s de oberseer, in his own house, bout
quarter ob a mile dis side ob Grippinwolf Hall; but

GLORIA 271

Lor*, de people bout here don t call de place Grip-
pinwolf no more dey calls it Ghost Hall. 7

"Where does the housekeeper live?" inquired
David Lindsay.

"Oh, she she libs at de gate lodge. She moved
dere when she was dejected by de ghosts."

"Now, Gloria, we have not ridden more than two
miles from the ferry. What would you like to do?
Turn back, as the old man advises, and stop at the
ferry for the up coach and take our places for the
North, and for some other home of yours more Con
venient and attractive, or go on to this?" earnestly
inquired David Lindsay.

"Oh, go on to Gryphynshold, by all means. Since
I have heard the supernatural tales told by this
old man, which well supplement the horrible stories
told me by Aunt Agrippina, I am more than ever
determined to go on to Gryphynshold. The over
seer can certainly give you a bed in his cottage
for to-night, while I shall stay at the gate lodge
with the housekeeper "

"And as for me," put in the old negro, "soon s
ebber I gets to dat same gate-house, which won t
be fore midnight, I gwine to lop you all right down
dere an turn right round and dribe my mules
straight home ag in. All de money in dis univarse
wouldn t hire ole Uncle Tubal to take up his lodg
ings long ob de dead people ! Leastways, not till
I s dead myself!"

"You can do as you please," said David; "but tell
us what gave rise to these ridiculous stories?"

"What rised em? Why, de ghosts rised em!
De ghost ob dat ole Satan s demon son, Dyvyd
Grippinwolf, who murdered de booful young ooraan
as he stole away from her friends an fotch to his

272 GLORIA

own DebbiPs den up yonder. His unquiet ghost
rages up and down all night, rushin t rough de
halls and up de stairs, a slammin and a bangin
ob de doors like a ravin mad bull. And no bolts
or bars ebber strong enough to keep him out. Dat s
de one what tarrifies people clean out n deir senses,
young marster, I tell yer good."

"Is old Dyvyd Gryphyn s ghost the only hob
goblin that haunts the hold?" inquired David Lind
say, with a smile.

"Lor , no ! Why, dere s crowds of em sometimes.
All de wicked, wiolent, furious old Gryphyns as
ebber libbed dere which none ob em ebber died
in deir beds, yer know all ob dem died wiolent
deaths holds high jubilee-la! dere ebbery night
long ob all de debbils out n de pit ! Hush, honey !
Dat ole house up dere is de werry mouf ob de black
pit ob Satan ! An ef anybody was to xamine, I
reckon dey d find de deep, dry well in de cellar was
nuffin less dan a way down into dat same black pit
ob Satan ; and all debbils do come up an down it
to hold high jubilee-la! along with all de wicked,
furious ole ghosts ob de Gryphyns!"

"Has any one ever seen any of these dreadful
orgies?" inquired David Lindsay, with an incredu
lous laugh.

"You may laugh, young marster," said the old
negro, in an offended tone; "but ef yer persists in
goin an stayin at dat ole debbiFs den, you ll
laugh on t other side ob your mouf, I tell yer good."

"Has any one seen any of these horrible
spectres?" reiterated David Lindsay.

"Hi! What I tell yer? Didn t Mr. Oberseer
Cummings and Mrs. Housekeeper Brent bofe see
an hear dem? An didn t de ghost deject dem out n

GLORIA 273

de house? An I, my own self, wid my own eyes,
a comin from de mill one night, passed in sight
ob dat ole ghostly house. De night was dark as
pitch! Dere was nyder moor nor stars, an I
couldn t hab seed nuffin only for my eyes gettin
use to de dark, yer know. An I did look up to
de ole ghost house, standin way up dere on de
mountain, straight an black, against de dark sky,
an I couldn t see no windows fust, but all of a
sudden I saw all de windows in de front ob de black
looking house!"

With this culmination of horror, old Tubal made
an awful pause.

But as no one made the expected exclamation of
astonishment the old man inquired:

"Now, how does yer fink I saw all de windows
in dat dark, deserted house on dat dark night?"

"Heaven knows!" said David Lindsay.

"Want me to tell you?"

"Yes."

"By de light ob de ghosts eyes !"

"WHAT!"

"By de light ob de ghosts eyes, sure as I m a
libbin sinner ! Dere was a ghost at every window,
an at some windows dere was two or free, bofe men
an women ghosts. An every one ob deir eyes was
a shining like an inward fire an lightin up all de
windows !"

Again the narrator made an awful pause.

Gloria was evidently impressed by his story. Not
so David Lindsay, who quietly asked: "Had
you taken anything to drink that evening old
man?"

"Who? Me? Don t suit me, young marster ; I m
a Son of Tempunce, an a brudder in de Beth el um

274 GLORIA

Methody Meeting" said the old man, in dignified
resentment.

"I beg your pardon, I really do/ replied David
Lindsay, with frank courtesy.

"I did gib yer de bes Vice in my power, not to
go nigh dat debbiPs den ! But course you ll do as
yer likes. No offence, young marster."

" Why, you see this lady is fully determined to go
on there," David Lindsay explained.

"Yes, I am," added Gloria. "All that I hear of
that old house only serves to confirm my resolution
to go on and see it. We can find accommodations
with the overseer or the housekeeper for this one
night, David Lindsay, and then to-morrow we will
have the old stronghold of ghosts, goblins and
devils thrown wide open to the light of heaven,
and see if we cannot exorcise them. We will make
a thorough investigation, David Lindsay, for I have
quite resolved to take up my abode, for the pres
ent at least, in that goblin-haunted house, and I
feel that, in doing so, I am right."

CHAPTER XXI

GHOST HALL

There is so foul a rumor in the air,
The shadow of a presence so atrocious,

How could a human creature enter there,
Even the most ferocious?

THOMAS HOOD.

"WELL, young marster, the road turns right
here," said the driver, drawing up his mules.

GLORIA 275

David Lindsay looked out of the wagon.

On his left lay the dark river, with the snow-
covered valley beyond it.

On his right towered the stupendous precipice
of the Iron Mountain, cleft down from summit to
base, showing a ravine of wildly shattered rocks,
bristling with clumps of stunted cedar trees, all
dimly seen in the darkness of the winter night.

"You don t call that a pass, do you?" inquired
David Lindsay, incredulously, peering out into the
gloom.

"Dat s de road, young marster, sure s yer born.
Yer better look at it good, fore yer make up yer
mind to try it."

David Lindsay drew in his head and spoke to his
companion.

"Look out and tell me if you still persist in going
on," he said.

"I will look out just to please you, but I am bent
on going on !" she replied, as she came forward and
gazed up the ravine.

"Well?" inquired young Lindsay.

"Well, it looks threatening very! But I said
that I was bent to go on ! Where the mules can go,
I can go," she persisted.

"Drive on!" exclaimed the young man to the
driver.

Tubal did not "drive," however. He slowly de
scended from his seat and came to the mules heads
and led them on.

It was well, perhaps, that the heavy wagon-cover
concealed the terrors of the road that otherwise
must have been discovered even through the dark
ness of the night, and daunted Gloria s uncon-
quered spirit.

276 GLORIA

After a precipitous descent and the crossing of
the stream, the young travelers in the wagon be
came conscious that the road was rising diagonally
up the mountain side.

When they had ascended some considerable dis
tance, David Lindsay put his head out to peer
through the shadows and survey the scene.

He found that they were climbing a steep, narrow
road on the face of the mountain, with a towering
precipice on their right and a falling one on their
left, and no room for any vehicle to pass that
should chance to meet the wagon.

He drew in his head and was careful to say noth
ing to his companion of what he had seen. A single
start of the mules a misstep a balk would be
destruction to man and beast for over and down
the face of the precipice they would go.

Higher and higher they climbed, and climbed for
hours and hours.

Then they began to descend slowly and heavily
for perhaps an hour longer.

Finally old Tubal pulled up his mules, stood to
recover his breath, and then came to the front open
ing in the cover of the wagon, and said:

"Well, young rnarster, here we is at the gate
lodge o Ghost Hall, or DebbiPs Den, whichebber
yer likes for to call it. I ll let yer out here, young
marster, for I tell yer good, no money yer could pay
down to me would duce me to pass t rough dem
dere gates ob hell !"

"Come, come, Tubal, don t use such strong
language before a young lady," said David Lindsay,
as he descended from the wagon and helped his
companion to alight.

"I don t use no stronger language than what de

GLORIA 277

good book uses anyways. Help me to lift de trunk
out, young marster."

"Let us see first whether there is any one up in
the gate-house/ 7 said David Lindsay, as he left the
side of the wagon.

Then he suddenly stood still gazing.

The sombre scene around them had a weird
glamour that spell-bound him to the spot.

"What place is this?" he muttered to himself.
"It is like a place seen in a dream. It might be a
place in some other planet, in some dead earth, or
extinct sun !"

It was an awful scene ! Mountains rose on every
side, their bases clothed with dark forest.

Nearer and dimly visible under the overclouded
night sky, towered hideous black rocks, and dark,
spectral pine trees that seemed to take goblin
shapes in the obscurity. Far back on the right
hand, from the midst of these, and scarcely to be
distinguished from them, loomed the roof and chim
neys of Gryphynshold.

The utter silence as of death that reigned over
all, added to the gloom, approaching horror, of this
stupendous scene.

David Lindsay turned from it with a feeling of
superstitious awe, to the formidable iron gate in
the stone wall that ran along the old park on the
right hand of the road.

The gate was not locked, but hung heavily upon
its strong, rusty hinges, shut by its own weight.

On the right of this gate some outlines of an old
lodge could be dimly seen among clustering cedar
trees.

But no light appeared to indicate where door or
window might be.

278 GLORIA

"De old 7 oman has gone to bed hours ago, most
like/ pleasantly remarked the wagoner, as David
Lindsay passed through the iron gate and the wild
thicket of cedar bushes and rapped at the door of
the dark house.

"Who is there?" almost immediately inquired a
voice from within.

"Nobody to hurt yer, ole mist ess!" shouted
Tubal, who was leaning up against a post of the
gate, utterly refusing to enter the haunted grounds.
"Nobody to hurt yer, ole mist ess ! Yer knows me
Tubal Cummings, from Wolf s Gap Ferry. I
done fotch a young lady and gempleman here
what s come to wisit yer."

There was a sound of movement in the dark
house, and presently a light gleamed through the
joints of the windows, and soon afterward the door
was opened by an elderly woman, who stood on the
threshold, bearing a flaming tallow candle high
above her head, and exclaiming:

"Uncle Tubal! Do you say you have brought
visitors here at this place, at this hour of the night?
Who are they, and what do they want?"

"Dat s jes what dey mus splain for deirselves,
Mistress Brent. Yer don t catch dis ole chile comin
in dere to tell yer!" exclaimed the man, beating a
retreat to the shelter of his wagon.

"Tell her precisely who we are, David Lindsay.
Tell her the exact truth," said Gloria, coming to his-
side.

Young Lindsay went up to the housekeeper and
Gloria followed closely. They could not see the
face of the woman, for the candle she held aloft cast
her into deep shadow.

GLORIA 279

"Let me introduce myself and this young lady,
madam "

"Who are you, then?" abruptly interrupted the
housekeeper.

"This is the young lady of the manor. You will
probably recognize her when you look at her,
though I hear you have not seen her since she was
seven years old. I have the honor to be her hus
band, and my name is Lindsay," replied the young
man.

"Gra-cious Heav-ens!" cried the woman, lower
ing the candle, and holding it closely under the
stranger s nose, to the great danger of his silky
beard.

"Look at me, Mrs. Brent, and see if you can re
member me," said Gloria, with a smile.

The candle was quickly transferred from the
danger of singeing David s mustache to that of
scorching Gloria s nose, as the old housekeeper
peered into the girl s face.

"Ye-es. N-no. I don t know. I see something
in the eyes like, but "

The old woman stopped and put the candle so
close to the girl s brow that Gloria started and
shrank back.

"Pray do not keep the young lady standing out
here in this bitter cold. She is already chilled and
weary. Let us come in. We expected to find you
at the house yonder. But that being shut up and
deserted, we must beg shelter from you even here,"
persisted David Lindsay.

"Oh, yes, to be sure. Come in. I did not get
your letter, indeed I did not, sir, or I should have
been ready for you. But you see Wolf s Gap
that s the nearest post-office is a long way off,

280 GLORIA

and we never send there except four times a year,
when Mr. Cummings, the overseer, sends in his
quarterly reports. I didn t get your letter to say
you were coming. I am very sorry, ma am, that
there is nothing better than this poor house to ask
you to, but such as it is, you are welcome," said
Mrs. Brent, as she led the young pair into a large
room, in which a great fire of hickory logs smoul
dered luridly in the deep, broad chimney-place.

She lighted a second candle and placed both on
the mantel-shelf, and then took from a large deal
box near the chimney corner a handful of dry
brushwood and put it under the smouldering logs,
kindling them into a ruddy blaze.

Finally she placed two chip-bottomed chairs be
fore the fire and invited her visitors to be seated.

"So sorry I did not get your letter, indeed, sir,"
she repeated, as she once more stirred the fire.

"We did not write. There was no time. We
made up our minds rather suddenly, one day, to
come down here, and we started the same evening,"
said Gloria, as she leaned back in her chair and
stretched her half-frozen feet and hands to the
genial blaze.

"Oh, indeed, then, I feel so relieved ! Of course,
you could not have expected to find the house pre
pared for you, and are not disappointed," exclaimed
Mrs. Brent.

"I am sorry to say that we are rather so ; for we
expected to find you living up at the hall, and some
rooms at least kept in readiness for just such a con
tingency as this," replied Gloria.

"Living up at the other house! Oh, young lady,
you don t know ! But I ll say nothing about that

GLORIA 81

now. I am so grieved not to have things comfort
able for you here !"

"Never inind never mind!" exclaimed Gloria,
good-naturedly. "To-morrow is a new day, and
everything can be arranged then. As for to-night,
we are both so tired with our week s ride that I
think we could rest comfortably in any motionless
place. I shall remain here with you, and Mr. Lind
say will get our wagoner to show him the way to
the overseer s house, where he proposes to lodge."

"But that is such a pity, to separate you two!
Though, indeed, I have got only one bedroom the
one above this there are two beds in it. I and
my niece sleep in one. The other is vacant and at
your service, ma am, if you don t object to sharing
our room with us," said Mrs. Brent, apologetically.

"Not at all ! I shall be so glad to lie down any
where after sitting up for a week," answered
Gloria.

"But you would like some supper, sir?" inquired
the housekeeper, turning to David Lindsay.

"No, I thank you. We had supper at Wolfs Gap,
and we only need rest. Gloria, I will go out and
speak to the wagoner, and see if he is ready to guide
me to the overseer s house. I will also get him to
help me in with your trunk," he whispered, as he
arose and left the room.

Gloria now, for the first time since her arrival,
looked at the apartment and its occupant. It was
a large, rude place, with a bare, flagstone floor,
bare, unplastered stone walls; in front a heavy
oaken door, flanked by two large windows, whose
very sills were stone; a ceiling with heavy rafters
crossing it, and finally, the immense, yawning fire
place, with its iron dogs supporting the great,

282 GLORIA

smouldering hickory logs from whence the light
blaze of brushwood had already died away.

The furniture was as rude as the room heavy
oaken chairs and tables, a spacious dresser with
broad shelves reaching from the floor to ceiling,
and furnished with all the crockery ware, cutlery,
tin, pewter, and iron utensils of the little menage.

In another corner a tall, coffin-like old clock
stood, with its foot on the flagstone floor, and its
head to the rafters. A rug of home-made rag car
pet lay before the fire, and mats of a similar ma
terial lay before the front and back doors.

That was all. It was a rude, plain room.

From the contemplation of the place Gloria
turned to the inhabitant.

The latter was a tall, thin, dark-skinned woman
with small, deep-set black eyes that had a watchful,
sidelong, frightened glance, like those of a person
who had suffered one overwhelming terror and was
continually looking out for another. Her hair was
quite white and parted smoothly over her forehead,
and confined by a close white linen cap tied under
her chin. She wore a long, narrow, black gown,
without a scrap of white about her neck or hands.

"This is a poor, rude place for you to be in, Mrs.
Brent. Surely not to be compared with the com
fortable apartments that must have been assigned
you in the manor house," said Gloria, compassion
ately.

"Oh, young lady, don t mention the manor house.
Don t ! You don t know ; you can t know. But I ll
say nothing more about that now. Here comes the
gentleman." David Lindsay had pushed open the
door, and was coming in, holding one handle of the
trunk while Tubal Cummings held the other.

GLORIA 283

They sat it down on the floor, and Tubal imme
diately bolted, flinging behind him these words:

"I ll wait for yer outside the gate, young marster.
I can t stay here, indeed !"

David Lindsay laughed, saying :

"I had the utmost difficulty in persuading that
old man to help me with the trunk. I had at length
to bribe him heavily before he would venture to do
it. And what do you suppose he means to do, after
leaving me at the overseer s?"

"What?" inquired Gloria.

"Go all the way back to Wolfs Gap to-night."

"I know he declared that he would do so; but I
did not think he would keep his word," replied
Gloria.

"Now, dear, in mercy to the old fellow who has
such a long way to return, I must bid you good
night. You, also, need rest so much that you had
better go to bed as soon as possible." So saying,
David Lindsay took her hand, pressed it and left
the lodge.

The old housekeeper stared.

"Is that the way your husband takes leave of
you? I never did! I really never did !" she said.

"We understand each other," said Gloria, smiling.

"Well, if you do, I suppose that is enough," mut
tered Mrs. Brent, who all this time was busy beat
ing up eggs with sugar in a bowl, while something
spicy simmered in a saucepan before the fire.

Now she took the saucepan and slowly poured its
contents over the beaten eggs in the bowl, stirring
thoroughly with a spoon as she poured.

Then she filled a tumbler with the pungent and
fragrant compound, and gave it to Gloria, saying
kindlv:

284 GLORIA

"Take this, honey. It is as nice a glass of spiced
mulled cider as ever I brewed n my life. It will
warm you all through, and drive out any cold you
may have caught."

Gloria smiled, and thanked her kind hostess, and
took and sipped the spicy beverage which she found
delicious in taste and delightful in effect.

The housekeeper filled a second glass for herself,
and sat down and sipped it for company.

"I should have offered to make some for your gen
tleman, honey, only as he was going out in the cold
again it would have done him more harm than good.
Besides, to tell the honest truth, I don t think such
indulgence in drink is good for young men anyhow.
They begin with cider, and are too apt to end with
rum."

Very much revived and comforted, Gloria
finished her mulled cider and put her glass upon
the mantelpiece.

"Now, then, dear, we will go up stairs to bed,"
said Mrs. Brent, placing her own glass beside the
other one, and blowing out one candle and taking
the other.

"Are you not going to lock the door?" inquired
the visitor.

"Law, child, why? There is no one to molest us
except those that no locks can keep out. How
ever, I ll do it to please you," said Mrs. Brent,
going to the door and turning the key.

"Thank you very much," said the young lady.

"You re welcome, honey. Now, then, come to
bed," she added, as she led the way through the
back door to a narrow passage from which a stair
case ascended to the upper room.

GLORIA 285

Gloria picked up her carpet-bag and followed her
conductress.

The room above was of the same size with the one
below like that, the walls were of hewn stone,
unplastered, but the floor was of heavy oak planks.
There were three large windows in front, all hung
with coarse blue and white plaid cotton curtains.
There was a fire-place, a size smaller than the one
below; a pine table, with a small standing looking-
glass on it, under the middle window, opposite the
fire. There were two beds in the corners of the
room, with their low head-boards immediately
under the two end windows, on each side of the
rude dressing-table.

One of these beds was smoothly made up, as if
waiting its occupant. The other was tumbled and
tenanted.

"Come here," said Mrs. Brent in a whisper, going
towards the latter.

Gloria followed her and beheld the sleeper, who,
in some restlessness, had thrown off the cover, re
vealing her head, breast and arms.

She was a very young girl, with a delicate face
and fragile form, fair, transparent complexion,
blooming rosy-red on cheeks and lips, very light,
golden-red hair clustering in glittering tendrils
around the white forehead and roseate cheeks, and
with petite features. She would have been a per
fect little beauty but for some irregularities that
were even more piquante and charming than any
classic perfection could possibly be. First, her
dark brown eyebrows were of the fly-away pattern,
depressed towards the bridge of the nose and raised
towards the temples. Her tiny nose, no bigger than
a baby s, was the most dainty, yet the most decided

286 GLORIA

pug that ever was seen. Her upper lip was short,
and her chin pointed. The whole character and
expression of the fair, dainty, petite face, was sly,
roguish, mischievous, not to say impish and malign.
One arm, the under one, as she lay upon her right
side, was drawn back with crooked elbow and
clenched little fist. The other arm, the upper one,
was thrown over the pillow, also with crooked
elbow and clenched little fist. The attitude of the
little sleeping beauty was a belligerent one.

"Now that s my niece Philly Philippa, you
know, ma am and that s the way she always
sleeps. Just like a kitten or a puppy that is dream
ing of a fight. Now just you watch!"

With these words, Mrs. Brent took hold of the
shoulder of the sleeper, exclaiming :

"Phil! Phil! Wake up! Move farther! You ll
tumble out of the bed !"

The sleeper gave a little growl and a great
bounce, and threw herself over on her other side,
striking another aggressive attitude, and imme
diately relapsed into deep sleep. Gloria could not
help laughing as she said :

"She is very pretty and very good-humored, I am
sure, notwithstanding that she dreams of fights !"

"Oh, yes, she is a good girl enough, but an awful
trial for all that!"

"Your niece, you said?"

"Yes, my niece," repeated the housekeeper, as she
covered the sleeping girl and set the candle on the
mantelpiece.

Then, while the two undressed and prepared for
bed, Mrs. Brent volunteered some further informa
tion.

"You see there s a good many Cummingses round

GLORIA 87

about here, of a good old Scotch family, too. Did
you never read of the Red Comyns and the Black
Corny ns in your school-books, honey?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Well these Cummingses are of the same old clan.
I was a Cummings myself before I was married.
I am a lone widow now, you know."

"Yes, I have heard so."

"Well, I had three brothers. Alexander, who is
the landlord and ferryman and post-master down
at Wolfs Gap; and Ralph, who is your overseer
here; and last of all, poor Cuthbert, my youngest
brother, who was the father of this girl, Philly.
He used to drive the stage between Wolfs Gap and
Hill Top in North Caroliny, but he and his wife
have been in heaven this many a day. Philly used
first to live with Aleck at Wolfs Gap. I, having
no children of my own and being lonesome like,
have adopted the orphan. And a great charge she
is to me! Why, ma am, I had rather undertake
ten boys than one such girl. She rides the wildest
horses ; she hunts the worst game. Yes ! She rides,
shoots and hunts like a wild Indian! And even
dreams of it when she sleeps."

"I shall like Philly! I am sure I shall like
Philly! There is something in her," exclaimed
Gloria, as she got into her own bed and drew the
cover closely up around her neck, for it was keenly
cold up in these mountain regions, so that the great
wood fire scarcely sufficed to warm the room.

The housekeeper blew out the candle and laid
herself down to rest.

Gloria, utterly prostrated with her week s ride,
no sooner laid her head upon the pillow than she

288 GLORIA

dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep that lasted
until far into the next morning.

When she awoke, at length, the sun was shining
in through the blue and white checked curtains.

She looked around in some confusion on the rude,
unplastered walls and ceiling, the bare oak floor,
and the unpainted wooden chairs and table, quite
unable to remember where she was; but in a few
moments memory returned, and she understood the
situation.

There was no one but herself in the room, which
was now restored to perfect order, the other bed
being made up, the fire replenished, the hearth
swept, and fresh water and clean towels placed on
the rude dressing-table.

"They have all got up and left me to sleep my
fatigue off, I suppose," she said, as she left the bed
and began to make her plain morning toilet.

She was soon dressed in a dark blue cashmere
gown, with white linen cuffs and collar, and a black
bow.

Then she went down stairs and found Mrs. Brent
in the lower room, and seated before the fire en
gaged in carding wool.

"Good-morning, honey! You have had a real
good sleep, and I hope it has done you good!" she
said, rising, and placing a chair to the fire for her
young guest.

"Indeed I have, Mrs. Brent; thank you. It must
be very late."

"Look at the clock, my dear. It is after ten.
Well, I am glad you slept so long. I would not
have disturbed you if you had slept all day. Now
you are down I will get you a bit of breakfast in a
few moments," said Mrs. Brent, as she took up a

GLORIA 289

tea-kettle which was sitting on the hearth before
the fire, and hung it over the blaze, where it imme
diately began to sing for boiling.

"Has any one I mean has Mr. Lindsay been here
this morning?" inquired Gloria,

"Oh, yes, honey. Mr. Lindsay and my brother,
the overseer, you know, were here by seven o clock
this morning; but Mr. Lindsay wouldn t let you
be disturbed on no account. He asked me to keep
everything very quiet, so as to let you sleep as long
as possible, which I am sure I have done, my dear,"
replied the housekeeper while she was taking the
tea-pot and the cannister from the dresser to make
the tea."

"Where are they now?" inquired Gloria.

"Oh, they went right off up to the old house to
open and air it. Yes, more than three hours ago,"
answered the dame, as she made the tea and set it
to draw.

"When will they be back?"

"Well, when they have done the job, I guess ; but
I don t know when that will be," replied the dame,
as she took two dressed partridges from a plate
on the shelf, and laid them over the fire.

"You see," she added, as she took a cedar board
about the size of a shingle, and plastered one side
of it over with a thick corn-meal batter, and put it
before the fire, propped up by a smoothing-iron.
"You see, they will have to open all the doors and
windows from cellar to garret, and kindle fires in
every fire-place that will take them pretty much,
all day."

"Well, I think, if you will kindly direct me, I will
walk up to the house as soon as I have taken break
fast."

290 GLORIA

"I would advise you not to go yet awhile, honey,"
said the housekeeper.

And now she became so busy laying the cloth,
then turning the johnny-cake, putting the crockery-
ware on the table, then turning the partridges
flying quickly from hearth to cupboard, and from
cupboard to fire-place that Gloria could keep up
no sustained conversation.

"Now, then, sit up and take your breakfast, my
dear," said Mrs. Brent, when she had at last got the
frugal morning meal upon the table.

"These partridges are delicious," said Gloria,
when, with an appetite whetted by the keen moun
tain air, she had eaten a half of one.

"Yes, that s some of Philly s game! She shot
them on Saturday. The imp is good for something.
Only you see, honey, when she goes out I am always
in a dread that she ll never get back alive. Maybe
never be heard of again until her bones are found
bleaching on some rocky ledge!"

"Oh, how dreadful ! You ought not to entertain
such dismal thoughts!"

"I can t help it, honey, when that girl goes on as
she does!"

"Would you have such fears for a boy?"

"Lord, no ! My nephews, Ralph s boys, go hunt
ing almost every day and keep the hotel down there
at Wolf s Gap supplied with game; but they are
boys."

"Well, and she s a girl."

"But they know how to take care of themselves."

"And so does she, I have no doubt, a great deal
better than they do. I like Philly. I am sure I
shall like her very much. Where is she now?"

"Oh, gone out with her gun and dogs. What do I

GLORIA 291

tell you? WLen she isn t about some mischief she
is dreaming of it."

"I am her debtor for a delicious breakfast. I will
not hear her blamed. I like Phil better the more I
think of her. I admire her all the more for having
such a dauntless spirit in such a little, fragile
body."

Gloria had scarcely spoken these words when
there was a sudden and tumultuous entrance of a
girl in a cap, jacket, short skirt, and long boots,
Avith a game-bag slung over her shoulders, a fowl
ing-piece in her hands, and a couple of dogs at her
heels.

She set her gun down with a ringing clank in the
corner, then pulled her game-bag off and threw it
on the floor at the feet of the old laay, exclaiming:

"There auntie! There s a treat for your dinner!
Eight brace of birds, and all bagged in less than
two hours ! Say ! have you got any fresh meat for
2Eneas and Dido? Good dogs! Good dogs!" she
continued, patting the heads of a fine pointer and
a finer retriever.

"My dear, don t you see a lady present?" said the
housekeeper, in an admonishing tone.

The girl seemed to see the lady for the first time.
She fell back a step or two, dropped her chin upon
her chest, turned up her eyes shyly, and put her
finger in her mouth like a stupid and awkward
child in the presence of a stranger.

"Mrs. Lindsay, this young person is my naughty
niece, Philippa."

"I am glad to see you, Miss Cummings," said
Gloria, who could not help thinking all that awk
ward shyness was just put on for the fun of the
thing.

292 GLORIA

"My name is Phil. I don t know myself by any
other name, 7 replied the girl, giving her hat a push
that cocked it on one side of her curling, salmon-
colored hair, and gave an additional air of impish-
ness to the mischievous face beneath.

"Then I am even gladder to see you, Phil!
Gladder than I should be to see Miss Cummings. I
hope we will be friends. Shall we, Phil?"

"I don t know maybe I think so if you don t
begin to put on airs with us," slowly and conde
scendingly replied the elf.

"I hope I shall do nothing so silly. Why should
you suspect me?"

"Oh, I know you are our young lady of the
manor, and have come with your fine husband, who
is a very great man indeed, to take possession of
everything! If the ghosts up there will let you.
Ah !" said the imp, with a malign leer in her beau
tiful, long, light blue eyes.

"I am truly sorry, but I am really not to blame
for being your lady of the manor. It was a provi
dential arrangement in which I was no more con
sulted than I was about being born. I hope you
will forgive me for finding myself in such an ob
noxious position, and be my friend," said Gloria,
with a good-humored sarcasm that seemed to win
the impish creature before her.

"I don t know what I can do for you. I don t
know how to be anybody s friend unless I can do
something for them. I can do nothing for you but
keep you in birds and hares and such. That is not
much. They are so plenty in the forests below
here," said Phil, thoughtfully.

"That is much more than I shall be able to do
for you."

GLORIA 293

"I don t want anybody to do anything for me, and
what s more, I won t have it. I want to do all the
doing myself."

"Oh, you proud little sinner! Well, there is
something I want you to do for me right away.
You know the path up to the house. Will you show
it to me?"

"Yes, I will go there with you, but not right
away ! I must feed JSneas and Dido first, auntie I
I know Uncle Ralph slaughtered an ox last week
and sent a lot of beef. I want a couple of pounds
of sirloin for my dogs, and I am going to get it,"
said the elfish being, throwing off her cap and
hurrying out of the back door.

"Now that s the way, honey, she always does!
She s going to feed them dogs with the best meat
in the house!" complained the old lady.

"Well, the dogs have helped her to provide the
finest game," said Gloria.

"Ah, I see, my dear, you are going to encourage
that girl ! I see it quite plain ! Well, I wish you
would take her altogether as a seamstress, or house
keeper, if it were possible she could be either, or
in any way she could be useful or entertaining to
you ; for, indeed, I am anxious to get her away from
this sort of a wild life that keeps me always in a
fever !"

"Perhaps I may take you at your word, Mrs.
Brent, if Phil is agreeable; but what would you do
without her?"

"Oh, first-rate! I would take Marthy, Aleck s
youngest daughter! She s older than Phil, and is
a first-rate spinner and weaver and seamstress, and
house-girl generally. I could do a deal better with
Marthy than with this Witch-a- windy !"

294 GLORIA

As the old lady spoke, Phil came in and said :

"Well, I ve given the beauties one full meal, if
they never get another! And now I am ready to

go with you to Gryphynshold, Mrs. Mrs. Oh,

look here now bosh! You don t look a bit more
of a woman than I am myself, and if I am to be ex
pected to call you Mrs. What s-her-name, or Any
thing, our compact of friendship is going to fall
through."

"You may call me anything you wish?" said
Gloria.

"Well, what is your other name?" demanded
Phil.

"Maria da Gloria de la Vera," repeated the young
lady, with a merry twinkle of her eyes.

"Mar ree ar- dar Say it over again,

please," exclaimed Phil, stretching her blue eyes.

"Maria da Gloria de la Vera," repeated the young
lady, repressing an inclination to laugh.

"Der lar Vay rah! Heaven and earth and
the other place! I forget one end before I under
stand the other ! That will never do ! Say, what
do they call you at home, when they are in a hurry,
you know, and haven t got time to sit down and
repeat it all over slowly at their leisure?"

"They call me Gloria."

"Glo ree ah! Well, that is three long sylla
bles a great deal too long for a short and busy
lifetime ! I would rather call you Glo ."

"Quite right, my dear Phil. You may call me
Glo ."

"It suits you, too, for there s a glow all around
you! Well, then, Glo , I am ready to escort you
to Gryphynshold, Ghost Hall, Devil s Den, for by
all these names is your manor-house known, lady,"

GLORIA 295

said the strange girl, as she put on her hat and
stood waiting.

"I will be with you in a moment," exclaimed
Gloria, as she started up and left the room. She
ran up stairs to put on her fur sack and cap, and
then hurried down to join her escort.

CHAPTER XXII

WITHIN THE SHADOW

Over all there hung a cloud of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,

That said, as plain as whispered in the ear,
"The space is haunted." THOMAS HOOD.

THE two young girls walked out of the lodge and
found themselves in a thicket of stunted cedar trees,
that, because they were higher than her head, pre
vented Gloria from beholding one of the most mag
nificent and stupendous landscapes in the country.

A few steps farther, however, brought them out
upon the private road that led up to the house.

It was a road so utterly neglected that the thicket
of cedars on each side nearly met in the middle, and
would have prevented any other than a foot-pas
senger from passing along it.

This old road led upward all the way to a thickly-
wooded knoll, on the summit of which, quite buried
in pine and cedar trees, stood the old gray stone
building with its heavy oaken doors and heavy
oaken-shuttered window s. These were all wide
open to the sun and air now.

296 GLORIA

"Were you here when your grandmother I
mean your auntie, left the house ?" inquired Gloria,
as they approached the stone portico leading to the
door.

"No oh, dear, no! I never lived here! I al
ways wanted to, though !" replied the girl.

"Come and stay with me, then, for a while, for I
should like very much to have you."

"And oh, how I should like to come!"

"And you would not be afraid of the ghosts?"

"No ! I don t believe in them ! I wish I could !
I would rather see a ghost if such a being exists
than anything else in the world! That is the
reason why I want to live in this house to watch
and wait all day in lonesome rooms, and lay awake
all night in hope of seeing a ghost. And if there
is any particularly evil haunted room in the house
that is the one I wish to sleep in."

"You shall be accommodated," said Gloria, with
a smile, as she went up the moss-grown steps to the
wide-open door a corresponding door at the back
of the hall stood, also, wide open, giving a vista
through the spacious hall that was paved with flag
stones of gray rock, and furnished with rude
benches of oak and mats of cedar shavings. A
broad staircase ascended from the middle of the
floor. And near each side of the foot of this stair
case, were broad, open chimneys in which great fires
of brushwood blazed, at once clearing the atmos
phere and heating the place. Yet neither the bril
liant sunshine, pouring in through the open doors,
nor the genial fire flaming up the chimneys, could
dispel a certain air of gloom that pervaded the
house, depressing all who were within it.

Four inner doors two on each side were also

GLORIA 297

open, giving views of large, lofty rooms, all with
flag-stone floors and bare stone walls, and rude,
plain oak chairs and tables. No carpets, no cur
tains, no pictures varied the coarse monotony of
their aspect.

David Lindsay came out from one of the rooms,
and seeing Gloria, exclaimed:

"You here! I had hoped to have had things in
some better order before letting you see the old
house. But, how are you? I hope you slept well
and are refreshed."

"Thanks. Yes, to all your questions. And now
I wish to go all over the house/ said the young
lady.

"In its present condition it is fit for nothing but
a barn or store-house ! The more I see of it the more
easily I can conceive of the savage nature of the
men who built and lived in it ; and the more I won
der at its purchase by such a man as the late Count
de la Vera ! But the mountains are supposed to be
rich in mineral wealth for any who have money,
and enterprise enough to work them."

While the two spoke together, Mrs. Brent and
one of her nephews came in by the front door.

"Well, honey, you see as soon as I righted up the
house, I felt as if I ought to come here and see if I
could be useful ; but I felt most afraid to come up
that lonesome road by myself, and maybe I mightn t
a got here, after all, if young Jim hadn t come
along with a quarter of mutton for the larder, and
I just made him stop and bear me company," she
said, as she went to one of the fires and began to
warm her hands.

"Are the rooms up stairs as bad or worse than

298 GLORIA

these?" inquired Gloria, after she had inspected all
on the lower floor.

"Oh, they are better. Come up and see them,
honey. The bed-rooms are all good, and the beds
are well preserved. You see, honey, the place has
not been so badly neglected as you might think.
I have done something to earn my salary. I have
come up here in the day once every week with some
of the niggers, and had the place opened and aired
and fires made in the bed-rooms to dry the damp
ness," said Mrs. Brent, as she led the way up the
broad staircase.

"Well, except that these chambers are drier and
cleaner, they have not much to boast of beyond the
rooms below. The whole house is awful gloomy.
One does not need to see a ghost here. One feels
that it is haunted," said Gloria, shuddering, as she
completed her inspection of the upper rooms.

"Yes, honey, even in the daytime, with the blessed
sun shining in at all the open windows, and people
going up and down. Then just think what it must
have been at night with no one but my lone self up
here and an old colored man and woman in the
kitchen down stairs after what I had seen and
heard, too," muttered the old lady, turning pale.

"You? Is it possible, Mrs. Brent, that there can
be any foundation for these absurd stories circu
lated amongst the superstitious colored people, and
that you yourself have had any cause to credit
them?" inquired Gloria, in great surprise.

"Now see here, honey, I put it to yourself. What
did you say yourself, just now? One feels that it
is haunted. "

"Oh, yes, by the memory of all the stories of mad

GLORIA 299

orgies and atrocious deeds that we have heard of
the furious old Gryphyns who used to live here,
and the curse that fell upon them. The air is
full of maledictions! Haunted by these, Mrs.
Brent. Spirits terrible enough to daunt the bravest,
yet not visible ghosts," said the young lady.

"That which I saw and heard, I saw and heard,"
solemnly answered the housekeeper, sinking down
in an old, green chintz covered arm-chair on one
side of the fire that had been kindled in one of the
bed-rooms.

"What was it, Mrs. Brent?" inquired Gloria, her
curiosity getting the better of her discretion, as she
drew a chair to the side of the old lady and seated
herself.

"It was that which drove me out of this large,
once comfortable and convenient house, to take
refuge in that rough, deserted porter s lodge, at the
gate, and has prevented me from ever coming back
here except in broad daylight, and with plenty of
people to keep me company."

"But what was it, then, Mrs. Brent?"

"Nor was that the only time I saw and heard
what was not of this world! No, nor of heaven
either! Nor am I the only one who has seen and
heard things about this place enough to raise the
hair and curdle the blood of the boldest man in the
country."

"Oh, but you have not told me yet what has been
seen and heard about this haunted spot to strike
such terror into the hearts of men," said Gloria,
beginning to be infected by the superstitious fears
of her companion.

"An evil spirit from the pit ! and those he brings
with, him !" muttered the housekeeper in a low voice.

300 GLORIA

"What do you mean?" inquired Gloria, in hushed
tones.

"The last master of Gryphynshold old Dyvyd
Gryphyn ! He whose life was the wickedest of all
the wicked ones that had gone before him ! He who
turned his young wife, or sweetheart no one
knows which she was out of doors in the middle
of a bitter cold January night to perish of cold,
as she did on the mountain side ! He who that next
day was killed in a wicked duel, and whose body
lies buried in the unconsecrated earth of the family
burial ground for they were all infidels, and
wouldn t let a minister of the Gospel come on the
premises. He it is whose spirit cannot rest in the
grave, or tarry even with his fellow-devils in the
pit, but walks continually up and down through
house and thicket in the darkness of the darkest
hours in the night!"

"And you have seen him?" questioned Gloria,
with incredulous astonishment.

"I was the first to see and hear him after his
being killed in the duel. It was no dream, ma am,
it was no delusion, though you look as if you
thought so ! It was late at night the night after
that poor young creature had been torn from her
bed and turned out to die of cold on the mountain.
It was a still, cold, freezing night one of those
silent, bitter winter nights when the frost seems
to steal into the very marrow of your bones. I was
sitting by the big fire in the front hall, waiting for
the master to come home so that I could let him in.
I had sent all the servants to bed, because they
were tired with their work, poor things! and, be
sides, they would have to get up so early in the
morning that they could not afford to lose their

GLORIA 301

rest. Well, I was sitting there before the fire, with
my knees roasting and my back freezing, and not
a sound to be heard all over the house, not even a
cricket or a mouse. I don t know which was the
most awful, the stillness or the cold. Sud
denly "

"Well, suddenly what?" eagerly demanded
Gloria, seeing that the old lady paused longer than
necessar}^.

"Suddenly there came on the stillness a violent
rush, as of a great gust of wind, that forced the
front door open. I jumped up in a panic, but
dropped down again; for there stood the master,
pale as a corpse, with a ghastly wound on his
temple, from which the blood was slowly trickling
down his cheek. He did not stop a moment, but
glaring at me, strode down the hall, and up the
staircase, and disappeared at the top."

"Good Heavens !"

"I was a strong woman at that time, but I came
near swooning, for I thought it was the master
himself in the flesh, and that he had got his death-
wound somehow. But soon rallying myself, I got
up and shut the front door, and bolted and barred
it. The night was now as still and breathless as it
had been before Dyvyd Gryphyn rushed in with
that furious wind. After I had fastened the door
I went up to the room over the kitchen in the back
building, and waked up old Tubal, who was then
the only man-servant about the house..

" Tubal/ I said, rise and dress quickly. Your
master has just come home, dangerously wounded.
Perhaps I ought then to have gone directly to the
assistance of the supposed wounded man, but, some
how, I felt afraid to go alone. Old Tubal, who had

302 GLORIA

been too much accustomed to scenes of violence and
their results, in that house, to be very much shocked
at what I told him, merely grunted forth :

" It s nothing more n I expected/ and then has
tened to dress himself and follow me to his master s
room. Well, when we got there "

"Yes! when you got there!" eagerly exclaimed
Gloria, who would hardly let the old lady pause
for breath.

"There was no master to be seen ! No sign of a
master. We looked through some of the nearer
rooms, but without finding him. Then we sat down
in his room and waited, thinking that he might
have gone somewhere about the house, and would
be back soon. We waited and waited, until at
length I became alarmed; for I thought he might
have fainted from loss of blood in some other part
of the house. Then old Tubal and myself recom
menced our search and went into every room, closet
and passage of the house from the attic to the
cellar, but without finding any trace of Dyvyd
Gryphyn."

"And was he never found?" inquired Gloria, in
a tone of awe.

"Yes, honey, his body had been found twenty
miles away, hours before his spirit appeared to me
in the hall. At sunrise the next morning, the men
who had found it on the duelling ground the other
side of Wolfs Gap, arrived with it at the hall here.
There was an inquest, of course, and then the truth
came out."

"What was the truth?"

"Why, it seems that on the occasion of the last
feast that Dyvyd Gryphyn held here when he was
drunker than usual, he sent for his young wife, and

GLORIA 303

made her come down and sing for his wild com
panions. She had a beautiful voice. They were
all mad that night. They shocked and terrified the
poor thing so that near morning she escaped and
fled from them, and locked herself up in her room
in a state bordering upon distraction. 7

"Yes, yes, I have heard that story before."

"Well, when the man came to his senses the next
day, he rode away with his guests as far as Wolfs
Gap, where they all stopped to rest and drink.
They spoke rudely of Gryphyrfs hidden beauty, and
one man a Colonel Murdockson boasted of signs
and signals that the lady had given him the night
before, to the effect that she was ready to run away
with him."

"Revolting!"

"It was as false as the father of lies ! Yet Dyvyd
Gryphyn, with the furious jealousy of his race, be
lieved the slander. He challenged Murdockson on
the spot, and the meeting was arranged to take
place the next afternoon in the hollow below Wolf s
Gap."

Gloria shuddered.

"The meeting was to be without seconds, and it
was only to end in the death of one or both. When
all was settled, Dyvyd Gryphyn set out to return
home, arrived only at midnight, strode to his wife s
chamber, dragged her out of bed and thrust her
out in the midnight storm to perish on the moun
tains, as she did, for her body was also found
though, as the birds of prey had been the first to
discover it, it was hardly recognizable."

"I have heard that, too!" shuddered Gloria.

"I only refer to that in its connection with the
duel. The next morning he left home to fight it,

304 GLORIA

although we, at Gryphynshold, had no suspicion
of what was afoot. And that night I waited for
him as usual when his spectre came. After the
inquest, and the verdict in accordance with the
facts, the body of Dyvyd Gryphyn was buried out
yonder, as I told you. But his spectre still haunts
the place."

"What became of Murdockson?"

"He left the neighborhood after the duel, and has
never been heard of since. You see, ma am, there
were circumstances of horrible atrocity connected
with that affair, which I have not had the courage
to tell you yet. I may some time. Ah ! here comes
Mr. Lindsay."

CHAPTER XXIII

WHAT PHILIPPA SAW

A horrid spectre rises to my sight,
Before my face, plain and palpable.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

DAVTD LINDSAY entered the room, with a graver
air than usual overshadowing his frank coun
tenance.

Mrs. Brent arose and offered him her own chair
by the fire.

With a gesture, he silently thanked her, and
signed that she should resume her seat, while he
drew another to the hearth for himself, saying, as
he sank into it :

"Well, I have been all over this house, from
cellar to attic, and I must repeat now from knowl-

GLORIA 305

edge what I said at first from suspicion, that this
place is no home for any lady, and therefore none
for you."

"Why?" inquired Gloria, with provoking cool
ness.

" Why? My dear lady, the answer is in every
thing around you in the desolation, the drear
iness, the solitude "

"I do not want company," interrupted Gloria.

"In its remoteness from all the life of the
world "

"And I do want to be very quiet," added Gloria.

"In its dilapidation and dampness."

"Good fires can rectify the one immediately, and
good workmen the other in due time."

"Finally, in the evil reputation of the place,"
said the young man, solemnly.

"Now, David Lindsay, if you mean the rumors
about the house being haunted, that is just what
attracts me to it !" said Gloria, archly.

"It is not that idle rumor to which I refer. A
place that has been little better than a stronghold
of godless revellers, gamblers, drunkards, duellists,
murderers, if all be true that is told of them, is no
proper home for any lady, not to say you. It is
only fit to be turned into a smelting-furnace for the
treasures of iron ore said to be hidden in the
depths of these mountains," gravely concluded the
young man.

"Oh, then you don t believe that the house is
haunted," said Gloria, good-humoredly.

"It is haunted by the association of atrocious
crimes and bitter sufferings, if by no other ghosts.
Lady dear, I wish you would not think of living
here," he pleaded.

306 GLORIA

"The poor old place is in no way to blame for the
evil lives of the monsters who once lived here and
have now gone to where they belong to Pande
monium. I shall stay here, David Lindsay, until
I have become familiar with every part of the
house, and acquainted with every part of the moun
tain. If I grow weary of the place I shall take
Phil Cummings for a companion and one of her
old uncles for an escort, and return to Washing
ton."

As Gloria said this, the housekeeper, who sat be
tween the young pair, looked from one to the other,
and with the bluntness that belonged to her nature
and circumstances, exclaimed:

"Why, surely, if you go, Mr. Lindsay must escort
you himself."

"Mr. Lindsay has business that will compel his
return North as soon as he sees me settled in my
home," coldly replied Gloria.

David Lindsay s fine face flushed, and then grew
pale.

"Well, I suppose, such a big estate as yours,
ma am for I am told that Gryphynshold is but a
small portion of it, and that the bulk of it is in
Maryland will require a deal of attention, not to
say what the gentleman s own affairs may call for ;
but one would think you would have settled all
that before you came down here, so as not to be
separated so soon again. It seems such a pity,"
said the housekeeper, sympathetically.

Gloria did not reply, and David Lindsay could
not.

"Well, I didn t sit down here to idle away my
time. I must go to the linen room and see to get
ting out the things to make up the beds though,

GLORIA 307

dear me, when I come to think of how long they
have been packed away in the cedar chests, I don t
believe they will be fit for use, for yellowness and
closeness," said the housekeeper, getting up to leave
the room.

"I will go with you," said Gloria, rising to fol
low Mrs. Brent, for her sensitive conscience and
sympathetic spirit made her dread a tete-a-tete with
David Lindsay almost as much as she had ever
dreaded one with her uncle; not that she thought,
for one instant, that the pure-hearted and noble-
minded young fisherman would ever, under any
temptation, or for any reason, break his word to
her, or take the slightest unfair advantage of his
position towards her.

She knew that he never would do that. She
knew also that he would never plead for the love
that she was unwilling to give him; that he would
never invoke her pity by any look or tone expres
sive of the disappointment and humiliation, the
sorrow and distress he really suffered, and which
she intuitively knew that he suffered. No, but she
was afraid of herself. She could trust David Lind
say utterly, but she could not trust herself.

She had loved David Lindsay from their child
hood up; but she had never been "in love" with
him, or with any one, and she had never wished
to marry him, or any other; but driven by the
very spite and stress of fate, she had married him,
and immediately afterwards realized what a mad,
fatal, irreparable error she had committed in unit
ing her fate to that of one so utterly unfitted by
birth, position and education to be her husband!

Yet there were moments now when the memory
of their lifelong, innocent, childish affection for

308 GLORIA

each other melted her heart to tears ; when the con
templation of his magnanimity filled her mind with
admiration; when all that was best in her own
nature bridged the gulf between them, and almost
impelled her hands and lips and voice to go where
her spirit had gone before.

She was afraid that in some such moments as
this she should cast her arms around the neck of
her young husband, and press her lips to his and
say:

"You saved me once from death, and once from
worse than that. You love me more than I deserve.
You merit all my love. I am your wife. Do not
leave me."

She was in danger of saying this every hour
and she did not wish to say it.

Now she hurried after the old housekeeper, who
led the way to a room at the end of the hall, fitted
up with shelves above and drawers below, all
around the walls. These were, however, empty, and
two large cedar chests that stood in the middle of
the floor seemed to contain all the household linen.

Mrs. Brent drew a key from her pocket and un
locked one of the chests, from which a heavy aro
matic odor of sweet herbs and spices arose.

"I used to take out these things and air them,
every summer, but of late years, seeing that they
never seemed to come into any use, I gave up doing
that, and just contented myself with putting more
dried lavender and basil in them every fall," she
said, as she lifted out folded sheets, fine as cambric,
yellow as saffron, and filled with the odor of sweet
herbs.

"It is no use, honey," continued the housekeeper,
"these here things are not fit to be used. They will

GLORIA 309

have to be washed and bleached first. I shall hare
to lend you some of mine. They are not so fine as
these, but they are a deal whiter, so perhaps you
will excuse them."

"I shall be very thankful for the loan of them,
Mrs. Brent," said the young lady.

"Indeed you are welcome, my dear," replied the
housekeeper, who was still looking over the con
tents of the cedar chest.

"Now, Mrs. Brent, I wish to ask you have you
never slept in this house since the night that that
Dyvyd Gryphyn was killed?"

"And his ghost appeared to us here? No, ma am.
Never since that night have I slept in this house.
The officers of the law occupied it the next day, and
after the inquest the undertaker had possession
until the funeral. While that was going on T slept
at my brother s house. Then I had the furniture
of my part of the house moved down to the gate
lodge, which was empty at that time, and I have
lived there ever since; only, as I told you before,
coming up here, in broad daylight, with a lot of the
colored people to keep me in courage, while I had
the house opened and aired. This I have done faith
fully every week all the year round, ever since the
last master s dreadful death."

"And you have never seen anything to recall the
horrors of that night?"

"Not much, ma am, because I have always visited
it in broad daylight, as I have told you."

"Well, now that the place is thrown open to the
sun and air, and Mr. Lindsay and myself are here
to take possession, and your niece Philippa and a
number of the colored servants, whom we shall
bring in, you will not be afraid to join us?"

310 GLORIA

"You mean to come back and live here?" inquired
the housekeeper, somewhat startled.

"Yes, to come and live here. I shall want a
housekeeper in the house to look after the servants.
I shall also need a matron, as a protector for my
self during the absence of Mr. Lindsay ; or, to speak
more correctly, I should say, after the departure
of Mr. Lindsay. I would give you for your sleep
ing-room, one of the best bed-chambers in the house,
the next to my own, for company, and your niece
could sleep with you for closer company. Come,
what do you say?"

"Oh, ma am, I know not what to say. Of course,
I know that I must do one thing or the other. As
long as you need a housekeeper in the house, I must
either come and live here or else I must give up
my situation and let some other woman take it who
would come and live in the house. I have held the
situation of housekeeper at Gryphynshold for
twenty-five years, and I don t like to give up a post
that I expected to live and die in ; and, on the other
hand, I am afeared to sleep in this house."

"Well, Mrs. Brent," said Gloria, with more firm
ness than she had ever given herself credit for pos
sessing, "I do not wish to hurry you. Take your
time to decide what you will do; but let me know
your answer before Mr. Lindsay goes away; for it
will be necessary for me to find some matronly pro
tection before his departure."

"And dear me, that will be so soon," said the
housekeeper.

"Yes; but listen. Your years of faithful service
will not be forgotten. If you decide to leave me you
shall have six months wages in advance; but if you

GLORIA 311

decide to stay I will do anything in the world that
I can do to make you happy."

"My dear young lady, would you let me try it a
little while before deciding?" inquired the old
housekeeper.

"How do you mean?" asked Gloria.

"Let me try if I can stay here. If nothing hap
pens, such as happened on that horrible night, why,
I might stay and spend the rest of my life here; but
if anything of that sort should come again, if it
shouldn t frighten me to death on the spot, it would,
at least, scare me away from the house forever."

"Such a night of horror is not likely to return in
our lifetime. I accept your terms, Mrs. Brerit, and
I am very glad to do so. I should dislike to lose
you."

"Thanky, honey; so should I," replied the old
woman, rather obscurely. Then: "When would
you like me to come in, ma am?" she inquired.

"As soon as you possibly can."

"Well, I think I can come to-day. As you were
so kind as to say that you would give me a room
next to your own, I shall not need to move the fur
niture from the lodge-house, as these rooms are
already furnished. Now, honey, I ll go down and
see to preparing the dinner."

"Thanks, and please send your niece up to me,
Mrs. Brent," said Gloria, who still shrank from a
tete-a-tete with David Lindsay.

Philippa came dancing up stairs and into the
room.

"There s an army in the old house, and I am
afraid they ll rout the ghosts!" she exclaimed.
"Just think of it ! They have all the field negroes
who have not much to do outside at this season

312 GLORIA

of the year, you know in the house, busy scrub
bing, scouring, mopping, sweeping, dusting and
what not"

"Then they will get through all the sooner, for
which I shall be very glad," said Gloria.

"Oh, they will get through cleaning to-night!
And then we shall have peace for some time; for
they can t begin any repairs until the spring, you
know."

"I don t want any repairs. The house is wind
and water proof, and that is all that is necessary
besides cleanliness. Fresh paint and new wall
paper would utterly spoil it."

"I think this inroad of mops and brooms and
scrubbing-brushes has spoiled it already. Oh, the
poor ghosts! I am so sorry for the ghosts. Yes,
and for myself, too. I was so in hopes of seeing
a ghost," sighed Philippa, with a look of downright
disappointment.

"Why should you wish to see a ghost, if such a
being ever exists?" inquired Gloria.

"Why, oh, why? Because the apparition of a real
ghost would be proof positive of the life after
death," said Philippa, quite seriously.

"But your Christian faith should assure you of
that, if you have faith."

"Oh, yes, I have faith, of course I have faith.
Why, I have been confirmed, child, so of course
I have faith ; but what I want is certainty. I want
to see a ghost who can tell me all about it. There
is nothing in this hum-drum world I should like so
well as a good, comfortable, sitting down, leisurely
gossip with a real ghost ! Or a midnight visit from
a departed spirit, who would take a chair at my

GLORIA

bedside and answer all my questions," said
Philippa; and she looked as if she meant it.

"You would be frightened out of your wits !" ex
claimed Gloria.

"Not I! What would I have to fear? Who ever
heard of a ghost hurting anybody? Of all the ab
surd cowardice, I think the fear of ghosts must be
the weakest! Why, if the very wickedest old
Gryphyn that ever killed and ate his grandmother,
was to appear to me and try to bulldoze me, all I
would say would be Ah ha, old rooster! Your
comb is cut now! Flesh and blood have no longer
anything to fear from you! Clear out, or I will
throw my prayer-book at your head for of course
you know I wouldn t care about hearing what he
could tell me of the other world! But, oh dear!
there is not the slightest probability of interviewing
a spirit, good or evil, now. These commonplace, un
imaginative sweepers, and dusters, and moppers,

and scrubbers have exorcised them all unless

Come with me, Madame Gloria. I will show you
a place that they haven t invaded yet, and if that
place is not consecrated or cursed to the use of
ghosts, I ll give them up," said Philippa, suddenly
rising.

Gloria, carried away by the impetuosity of her
companion, arose and followed her.

Philippa led the way down stairs and down the
main hall to a side door that opened into a long,
dark, narrow passage leading through an ell of the
building.

At the end of this she opened another door lead
ing down a deep and narrow flight of stairs to a
dark cellar.

At the foot of these stairs she stopped and said :

GLORIA

"Wait. I brought a piece of candle with me and
a match. We must have a light before we go a step
farther."

And while Gloria stood there, Philippa snapped
a match and lighted the end of the tallow candle,
which, however, only showed a small ray in the
midst of the deep darkness.

They stepped down now upon the flagstone floor
of the cellar, which seemed quite dry. Groping
along with their feeble light, they explored the
walls, which were arched and divided into bins and
niches some of them with rusty iron doors places
which made the two girls shudder.

In one corner of this place they found a door
which, when they opened it, revealed, in the dim
light of the candle, a ladder leading down to a sub
terranean room below the cellar.

"Oh, look here!" whispered Philippa. "Look
here! In the deepest deep a deeper deep!"

"Oh, come away! Come away! Come away
directly and shut the door! There is a dreadful
air arises from that place!" exclaimed Gloria,
shrinking back.

" Come away, indeed ! Not much ! I am going
down these stairs to see what is at the bottom. You
can stay here until I come back, but I cannot leave
you the candle, you know," obstinately replied the
stubborn girl.

In vain Gloria sought to dissuade her from her
purpose. She was as stubborn and intractable as
a young mule, and she began to go down the ladder.

Gloria, seeing her so determined, had no other
alternative but to follow her willful guide.

A foul air, impregnated with must and mould
and dampness, met them. They could scarcely

GLORIA 315

breathe, the candle could scarcely burn in the im
pure, oppressive atmosphere.

"Oh, if you would only not persist," moaned
Gloria, as holding on to the sides of the ladder, she
groped her way down after her conductor.

"But I must persist," replied Philippa, who had
now reached the bottom.

With some danger and difficulty Gloria de
scended the ladder and stood by her side.

The feeble rays of the candle showed but a small
circle of light just around them. All beyond was
utter darkness.

Suddenly Gloria grasped the arm of her com
panion and shuddered.

"What s the matter?" demanded Philippa.

"Listen !"

"What?"

"Don t you hear something?"

"No!"

"Oh, listen! There it is again!"

"What, I say?"

"That moaning, gurgling sound, as of some one
strangling and groaning!"

"Oh, that is the sound of some subterranean,
pent-up stream. I have found such in the caves
under these mountains, and I have heard that the
foundations of this house communicate with a
chain of caverns opening from one into another
under the whole breadth of the mountain base, and
more than one stream of water must traverse
them," said Philippa.

"Then this is a very dangerous place! This is
far down under the deepest foundations of the
house, and in this utter darkness we might step into
a stream of water, and be swept away and drowned.

316 GLORIA

And oh! of all the gates that lead into the other
life, a black water gate must be the most appalling !
Do come back, Philippa!"

"I cannot! Something draws me on! But you
keep behind me. I will go on before. If I should
disappear, either down into a cave or into a sub
terranean stream, do you turn and go back to the
upper world by the way you came."

"This is foolish, foolhardy, wicked, Philippa,"

"I know it is, but I cannot help it. Something
draws me on, I tell you!" exclaimed the willful
creature. And at the same moment she stumbled,
recovered herself, and held the candle close to the
ground to see what the obstacle had been.

"Oh, gracious Heaven, what is this?" cried
Philippa, in a tone of sickening horror, as she re
coiled from the object.

"What is it?" whispered Gloria, in a frightened
voice.

"Look! Look!" gasped Philippa.

Gloria caught the candle from the girl s shaking
hand, held it down, peered into the obscurity, and
instantly sprang back with a piercing shriek.

They were on the very brink of a black torrent
that rushed along through the depths of a deep and
yawning gulch. Another moment another step,
and they must have plunged down the precipice
into the dark water of that buried river, and been
whirled on to destruction in the darkest depths of
the abyss.

But it was not even that impending doom that
had appalled them!

It was the dire object that rose from the earth on
the bank of the chasm!

For a moment they stood clinging together, half

GLORIA 317

petrified, and then, without a word, turned and fled
to the foot of the ladder, and climbed it with,
tumultuous haste. On reaching the cellar over this
cavern, they hurried across it to the door leading
up stairs to the back building communicating with
the house.

Pale, breathless, trembling, they at length found
themselves in the great hall, with its doors and
windows open to the wholesome sun and air, and
cheerful wood fires burning in the broad fire
places.

CHAPTER XXIV

HORROR

This chamber is the ghostly !

HOOD.

"On, Madame Gloria ! I ve done bragging ! I ll
never brag any more! I did pray to my guardian
angel if he d save my life and reason until I could
get out of that place I would never brag any more!"
exclaimed Philippa, with a hysterical laugh, as she
dropped on one of the rude oak benches in the hall.

"Oh, Philippa, don t speak so lightly of that

awful " cried Gloria, suddenly stopping and

covering her pallid face with both hands, as she, too,
sank upon a seat.

"Lightly? Gracious Heaven! I don t speak
lightly! All my boasted courage has come out in
a cold sweat that trickles like ice water all down
my spine! Madame Gloria, I would rather have
seen the blackest evil spirit from the abyss, all
alone at midnight, than that horrid Ugh-h-h !"

318 GLORIA

"Philippa! for Heaven s sake, don t speak of it
now, or evermore! You are a brave girl "

"I will never say so after this. I m conquered
quite !" shuddered the willful creature.

"You have seen what would have shaken the
nerves of the boldest man ; it is no wonder that you
are overcome as well as myself. But, Philippa, I
beg you, for my sake, never mention to a human
being what we have seen below. If it were once
known what our eyes have beheld what rises from
the brink of that subterranean black river the
horror below the foundation of these walls no liv
ing being could be induced to remain in the house
with us."

"Shall you remain?" whispered Philippa.

"Yes."

"Oh, why?"

"Because I said I would, and I should be
ashamed to retract. I will not be ejected, even by

that appalling Oh ! let us not speak of it, even

to each other. And never, never to any one else.
Your aunt would never come near the house, even
by day, if she knew of that dire presence below,
and I wish her to remain with us, Philippa. I say
us, because I feel sure that you will stay with me."

"Yes, I will stay and I will keep the secret,"
whispered the girl.

"The cellar and the horrible cave below it, with
the black river, have long been disused, if ever,
indeed, they were used at all. I will have the two
doors at the head of the two flights of stairs lead
ing dow^ to the abyss nailed up to-day. The foul
air from below will be excuse enough for that."

"There be some that cannot be kept out by locks,
or bolts, or bars, or nailed-up doors no, nor even

GLORIA 319

by tons of stone and earth! And of such was what
we saw !"

"Oh, hush, hush, hush ! Why do you dwell upon
that? Oh, that we both could drink of the waters
of Lethe and forget it!" whispered Gloria, as she
covered her face with her hands and shuddered.

At this moment a lucky interruption ended their
dismal conversation.

Mrs. Brent came walking briskly from one of the
side rooms, saying :

"Come, now, ma am, dinner is ready not such a
dinner as I hope to set before you every day for the
future, but just such a one as I could get up under
the circumstances to-day."

"I have no doubt it will be delicious and just
what we like. As for me, I prefer what are called
picked up dinners simple little dishes. The
sight of big joints takes away my appetite," said
Gloria, as she arose and followed her conductress
into the room from which the latter had emerged.

It was the front room on the left-hand side of the
hall a large room, with an oak floor uncarpeted,
stone walls unplastered, two tall front windows,
uncurtained, and a broad fireplace, where blazed
a rousing, fragrant fire of pine and cedar wood.

An oaken table, covered with a coarse, clean
white cloth, stood in the middle of the room, set
for dinner; two oaken chairs were placed for the
master and mistress of the house.

David Lindsay stood before the fire, but on see
ing Gloria, came forward to meet her.

"You look pale and worried," he said, as he took
her hand.

Teg, I have been going over the house and I feel
tired," she replied.

320 GLORIA

"And hungry, I hope, to do justice to the dainty
repast Mrs. Brent has prepared for us," he added,
as he led her to the table and drew out her chair.

"Now come, Mrs. Brent and Philippa, you must
both sit down and dine with us to-day. Don t let
it be said that we had to take our dinner alone on
the first day of our arrival at home," said Gloria.

David Lindsay immediately arose and placed two
more chairs at the table.

"Oh, we couldn t think of it, ma am, indeed!"
answered the housekeeper, drawing away.

Gloria urged and David pleaded, but Mrs. Brent
persisted in her refusal, until at length Gloria got
up and left the table, saying:

"Very well, then, I will not eat a single morsel
of dinner until you and Phil join us."

"Oh, I ll submit at once, laughed Philippa, tak
ing one of the vacant chairs.

"Do, Mrs. Brent, humor the fancy of our willful
little lady," said David Lindsay, as he arose and
placed his hand on the back of another chair, in
viting the old woman to take it.

"You are a couple of spoiled children, that s what
you are, and you ought both to be at school instead
of being married, and that is the fact," laughed the
housekeeper, as, not really unwillingly, she took
her place at the table with the genial young pair.

"Now, that is settled. The precedent don t they
call it a precedent in the courts of law, David?
the precedent is established. Henceforth you are
to take your meals with us, dear Mrs. Brent, just
as if you were our mother, and Philippa were our
sister; for we have neither mother nor sister on
this earth I mean David nor I and, besides,
really, we four are too few to be separated in this

GLORIA 321

lonesome place," said the little lady of the house,
as she settled herself to enjoy her dinner as well as
she could under the circumstances and the memory
of the afternoon s horror.

It was a very limited dinner, consisting of just
what was at hand and could be cooked in a hurry ;
but it w r as a very dainty dinner, notwithstanding;
there were delicious broiled venison steaks, light
biscuits, fresh butter, a baked custard, preserved
mountain cherries, tea, coffee and cream.

David Lindsay and Mrs. Brent fully appreciated
the good things, and proved that they did so.

But neither Gloria nor Philippa could so far
overcome the effect of that ghastly terror in the
cave as to relish anything that was set before them.

As this late meal was to serve as both dinner and
supper for the small household on this day of
bustle, they sat rather long at the table, not leav
ing it, in fact, until the short tallow candles that
had been placed upon it began to burn low in their
sockets.

Then David Lindsay and Gloria withdrew from
the dining-room and went into the parlor on the
opposite side of the hall.

There, also, a fine fire was burning, and a table
was drawn up before the hearth, flanked by two
straight-backed, chip-bottomed chairs.

"What would Miss Agrippina de Crespigney say,
if she could have seen her niece, the Countess
Gloria, sitting down at the table with her house
keeper?" inquired David Lindsay, with a smile, as
they seated themselves near the fire.

"Oh, for Heaven s sake, drop that! I never was
intended for a fine lady, David Lindsay never!
much less for a countess! I love people, David

GLORIA

Lindsay. I never want to keep them at a distance.
I want to draw them closer to me," she murmured,
in a tender tone, with her eyes fixed dreamily upon
the fire.

"Then love me, draw me nearer to you, and my
life s devotion shall be yours/ was in his heart and
almost on his lips to say; but he put away the selfish
thought and continued silent.

It was growing late, and they were both very
tired.

Gloria was the first to rise.

"Good-night, David Lindsay," she said as she
took one of the tallow candles from the chimney
shelf to light her steps.

"Good-night," he answered, in gentle tones.

"Your room," she resumed, and then she hesi
tated, holding the candle in her hand and looking
down on the floor "your room is the one over the
dining-room. You will find everything prepared
there for your comfort."

"I thank you very much," answered the young
man, in a low and broken voice.

"Good-night," she said, still hesitating.

"Good-night, lady dear."

"God bless you, David Lindsay," she added,
faltering.

"And you, too ! God bless you, Gloria," he an
swered.

She went out of the room ; but as she turned to
shut the door, she caught sight of his face. It wore
a look of weary sorrow, such as he never would
have willingly permitted her to see; and suddenly
she sat down her candle on the hall bench, ran
back into the room, threw her arms around his

GLORIA 823

neck and kissed his forehead, sobbing forth the
words :

"Oh, David Lindsay, I am so sorry so sorry!
But I can t help it. Indeed, I can t, dear David
Lindsay !"

With a look of ineffable tenderness, he put his
arm around her waist and drew her close to his
heart, and would have returned her kiss, but she
suddenly broke from him, and ran out of the room.
She caught up her candle from the hall table, flew
up stairs to her own chamber, shut the door, and
flung herself down on the bed in a passion of tears.

"Oh-h-h ! what a hard, cold, proud wretch I am !
What a cruel, wicked, unnatural monster! But I
cannot help it! I cannot! I don t want to be
married I do not. I love David Lindsay! I do
love him, dearly, dearly, dearly ; I always did love
him better than anybody else in the whole world.
Ah ! who is so good and grand as he is, within him
self? No one that I ever saw in this world. No
one that I ever read of. But I don t want to be
his wife! I don t want to be anybody s wife! Oh,
I wish I had stayed at the Sacred Heart, with the
quiet sisters there!"

She was interrupted in her passionate vehemence
of self-reproaches and lamentations by the sound
of light footsteps and cheerful voices approaching
her door, and finally by a rapping at the same.

She arose, composed herself as well as she could
and went and opened to Mrs. Brent and Philippa,
who had come to bid her good-night, and to ask if
she would need anything more before they should
retire to bed.

Gloria thanked them and said that she would re
quire nothing.

GLORIA

"And if you should, you have only to knock on
the door between us to let me know, for you see
our room is just back of yours here," added the
housekeeper.

"I will remember," replied Gloria, in a low tone.

"I suppose Mr. Lindsay will not want anything.
I reckon he ll be up before long. I left him sitting
before the big parlor fire," remarked Mrs. Brent.

"I dare say," answered Gloria, so wearily that
the housekeeper bade her good-night and retired,
followed by Philippa, who, since their fearful ad
venture in the cavern under the cellar, had been
strangely silent and reserved.

Gloria locked her door leading into the hall and
bolted the one leading into the rear room occupied
by the housekeeper.

Then she replenished her fire from a box of wood
that sat on one side of the hearth, and also threw
on a number of resinous pine knots and cones, that
their bright blaze might light up the large, gloomy
chamber.

Having done this, she proceeded to examine her
room more carefully than she had yet done.

It was one of the two front and principal bed
chambers in the house, being immediately above,
and of the same dimensions with the "big parlor"
below. And, with the exception of the bed, which,
in all its appointments, was very good, it was as
rudely furnished. The walls and floor were per
fectly bare. The window s were without curtains
or shades, but were provided with unpainted oak
shutters which closed from the outside. These two
front windows faced the east; between them stood
an old oaken chest of drawers surmounted by a
hanging mirror, so mildewed as to be scarcely use-

GLORIA 325

ful. Each side of this old piece of furniture stood
a high-backed, chip-bottomed chair, one under each
window.

On the south side of the room was the broad open
fire-place, with deep closets in the recesses on the
right and left.

On the west side was the high four-post bedstead,
with its head against the partition wall, and its foot
opposite the windows. On the side nearest the fire
place was the door leading into the rear room.

On the north side was the door opening into the
hall. In the corner between this hall door and the
head of the bed was an old-fashioned piece of fur
niture of black walnut that reached from the lofty
ceiling to the floor, and might have been a book
case, a clothes-press, a cabinet, or the three in one;
for the long, heavy black doors hanging open dis
closed closets within closets, and shelves and
drawers and pigeon-holes innumerable, and of all
shapes and sizes. Yellow papers protruded from
many compartments.

Gloria made up her mind to investigate this an
cient secretary at her leisure the next day.

Then, having offered up her evening prayers and
thanksgivings, she went to bed, and, notwithstand
ing care and anxiety, she soon fell asleep.

David Lindsay sat long over the fire in the big
parlor; not until all the household had been for
hours in deep repose did he rouse himself to go to
the chamber allotted to him over the dining-room.

This was a large, square room, in all respects a
counterpart of the one on the opposite side of the
hall occupied by Gloria. It was furnished in the
same rude style.

The only difference was that this room was with-

326 GLORIA

out the huge old escritoire, or secretary, that stood
in the other.

David Lindsay did not replenish his fire. It was
nearly out, so he covered it up, blew out his snuff
of candle, and retired to bed; but not to sleep at
least, for a long time.

He was as nearly heart-broken, poor fellow, as
any youthful lover ever was. His pride was strug
gling with the sense of disappointment, humilia
tion and sorrow that seemed to be rushing him
into despair. He felt sure that if his capricious
but tender bride knew the tithe of his sufferings,
she would give herself to him; but not to her pity
could he bear to owe his love. He must accept his
fate, rather than lose his self-respect ; must see her
in safety, and then depart.

But how to secure her safety? That was the
question that kept him awake so long.

At length, weary mind and body succumbed to
sleep.

Then a very strange thing happened.

How long he had slept, he knew not; at what
time he awoke, or whether he really did awake, or
only dreamt, he never could tell ; but it seemed to
him that he was gently aroused from a deep and
dreamless sleep, by the touch of a soft hand on his
face, and the tone of a soft voice in his ear.

"Who is there?" he murmured, only half con
scious.

The sweet, low-toned, pathetic voice answered:
"It is I, your mother. David Gryphyn, arise, go
hence, get to your home. My mother has somewhat
to say to you."

The soft voice, breathing flute-like over him, held

GLORIA 327

his soul in a spell of silence and repose until it
ceased.

Then, wondering, he started up as from a dream.

The room was perfectly dark, but he groped his
way to the mantelpiece, where he had left the
tallow-candle and the box of matches, and he struck
a light. And still in great agitation, he went to
both the chamber doors the one leading into the
hall, and the one leading into the rear room and
examined them. They were both securely locked
and bolted as he had left them.

Then he went to the front windows, hoisted them,
and threw open the heavy oaken shutters. A flood
of light burst into the room. He found, to his sur
prise, that it was broad day and the sun was rising.

CHAPTER XXV

"WAS IT A DREAM?"

Spirits have oftentimes descended
Upon our slumbers, and the blessed ones
Have in the calm and quiet of the soul
Conversed with us. SHIRLEY.

SUNSHINE flowed into the rconi, filling it with
dazzling light. Yet David Lindsay, after having
opened the shutters and let down the window-
sashes, stood in the middle of the floor, gazing down
like one still half entranced, with the impression
of that soft touch still on his brow, and the melody
of that tender voice still in his ear.

328 GLORIA

"Was it a dreain?" he murmured to himself.
"Could it have been a dream? No dream I ever had
was ever so like reality. Or could some dreaming
sleep-walker have entered my chamber and saluted
me? Impossible! Yet, let me examine the doors
once more."

He roused himself, and went again to investigate
the fastenings on the only two outlets from the
room the first leading into the hall, and the
second into the rear room.

He found them both securely locked and bolted,
and, moreover, the locks and bolts were both so
strong and so rusty that they required some con
siderable exertion to move them.

No one could have entered through the doors,
that was certain.

He looked into both closets that flanked the fire
place, but the bare plastered walls and oaken
shelves afforded no opportunity of concealment or
of passage.

Every other nook and corner of the room was
clearly visible in the bright sunshine. Even the
space under the high bedstead was a vista. The
plastered walls of the room, like those of the
closets, gave no chance of a sliding panel for en
trance or exit through a secret passage. Nor could
any one have come in or gone out through the
windows, which, besides having been securely fas
tened with oaken shutters secured by strong and
rusty iron hooks and bolts, were full fifty feet
above the ground, with a sheer descent of stone wall
below them, and no tree, or vine, or porch, or bal
cony to assist the climber.

No! it was utterly and entirely impossible that
any human being, besides himself, could have been

GLORIA 329

concealed in the room when he went to bed, or
could have entered it afterward.

And yet he had been awakened from a deep and
dreamless sleep by a light touch on his forehead,
and had perceived a benignant presence that he
could not see, a presence which, to his half-con
scious question of "Who is there?" had answered
in murmuring music, soft as the notes of an . Eolian
harp:

"It is I, your mother. David Gryphyn, arise, and
go hence ; get to your home my mother has some
what to say to you."

And the soft voice sunk into silence, and when he
started up and opened the window shutters, letting
in the rays of the rising sun, there was nothing to
be seen but the great bare walls and floor of the
room, with its scant and rude furniture.

David Lindsay sat down on one of the rough
chairs, and took his head between his hands to
think it over. He could make nothing of it. The
voice had said: "It is I, your mother." But the
voice was not at all like that of his mother, as he
remembered hers. Again, the mysterious visitant
had said, "David Gryphyn." But his name was not
David Gryphyn; it was David Lindsay. Finally,
it had concluded with these unaccountable words
"Go hence and get to your home, for my mother
has somewhat to communicate to you." But his
mother had no mother living on this earth, he knew.
His mother had been an orphan when his father,
James Lindsay, had married her. The old woman
at his home, Dame Lindsay, was his grandmother
on his father s side.

The dream, or vision, strange and real and super
human as it seemed, was an absurdly mixed-up

330 GLORIA

affair, caused, no doubt, by confused memories and
thoughts jumbled up together in his disturbed
brain. So David Lindsay said to himself, yet he
could not shake off the supernatural, perhaps even
the superstitious, effects left upon his mind.

He had been moving about and then sitting still
in the cold room, just as he had jumped out of bed.
He had been too much absorbed by his strange sub
ject of thought to feel the chill that was creeping
upon him.

Now, however, as he aroused himself from useless
reverie, he shivered and shook as with an ague, and
hastened to the hearth and uncovered the smoulder
ing coals and brands, and threw upon them several
handfuls of resinous pine cones and knots taken
from a box in the corner, and upon them several
cedar sticks and logs from a pile in the opposite
corner, that soon blazed up, filling the room with
an agreeable warmth and pleasant fragrance.

Then he dressed himself and went out.

There was no one in the hall outside the bed
chambers, so he could not tell whether he was not
the only one up in this strange house.

He passed down stairs and found the fires burn
ing brightly in the broad front and back fire-places
in the hall, but still no one was to be seen.

He entered the a big parlor," arid found another
pine fire there, but the room was empty.

In the spirit of restlessness he wandered into
every room on that floor, finding every one well
warmed by great open fires of costly logs costly
in every other locality, but cheap enough, because
plenty enough on Cedar Mountain.

These numerous fires were needed now, and

GLORIA 331

would be needed for some time yet, to correct the
dampness and bad air of the long-deserted house.

Last of all he wandered into the dining-room,
where they had taken dinner and tea in one on the
preceding day.

Here the table was drawn up before the bright,
blazing fire, and neatly set for breakfast.

"What a home this is for Gloria to come to!
What a strange fascination it is that brings her
here and keeps her here. Why, our poor little cot
tage on Sandy Isle is a civilized and refined home
compared to this ! And we have the small comforts
of life and a few books and a few little ornaments.
And Promontory Hall is a queen s palace to this.
For here, in this unfinished and almost unfurnished
place, there is not a papered wall, not a single
carpet, nor a curtain, nor a picture, nor a cast, nor
a book to be seen. It supplies only an inventory
of negations. How can she stay here? But there
is one good in the place. She is as safe here, per
haps safer here with Mrs. Brent, than she would be
anywhere else ; for I am not sure, if she were within
the reach of her half-crazy guardian, that her mar
riage would be any protection against his persecu
tion. Finding out this marriage to have been only
a form, he might choose to ignore it and urge upon
her the expediency of having it legally annulled.
I cannot trust an infatuated man without religious
principles to restrain him. Yes, she is better here
for the present, and if I could get Miss de Crespi-
gney to join her here, it would be the best thing that
could happen for her; for Miss Agrippina is too
strictly principled not to hold to the sanctity of
marriage vows, even in such a case as ours, and
she would be now the best protection for my un-

332 GLORIA

loving bride. I will try to get Miss Agrippina to
eoine to her, even if I ha r e to brave that lady s
rage."

So mused David Lindsay, sitting before the din
ing-room fire, until he was interrupted by the en
trance of Mrs. Brent, bringing a coffee-pot in her
hands and followed by a negro man with a large
dish of broiled partridges.

"Dear me! Good morning, sir! You nere! I
was just a going to send Hector to let you know
breakfast was ready ; for as I didn t see you in the
big parlor with Mrs. Lindsay, I thought you were
still in your room," said the good woman.

"I have been down some time; but there was no
one in the parlor when I looked in."

"Mrs. Lindsay has only been there for a few
minutes, sir. Here she comes now ! Now, Hector,
bring in the muffins."

Gloria entered at the same moment.

David Lindsay arose and placed a chair for her.
They only said good-morning to each other by a
look.

The last dishes were set on the board, Philippa
joined them, and they all sat down to the table,
the girl just nodding by way of a morning saluta
tion.

"I hope you slept well, ma am?" said Mrs. Brent,
interrogatively.

"Profoundly. I never even dreamed or stirred
until morning ! If there be a ghost about the house
it didn t disturb me," answered Gloria.

"Well, I suppose I should have slept quietly
enough too, if it hadn t been for Philly! She kept
jumping and starting, and talking, and crying out
the live-long night," said the housekeeper.

GLORIA 333

Gloria looked at her young companion and saw
that she was pale and anxious, yet Gloria did not
dare to ask the reason, lest "Philly" should blurt
out something about the ghastly apparition that
had appalled them in the cavern.

But Philippa spoke for herself.

"It was too much supper and the nightmare," she
explained, with serio-comic gravity.

As soon as breakfast was over, Gloria left the
table and retreated into the big parlor, followed by
David Lindsay.

Gloria had unpacked some materials for the silk
embroidery which she liked so well to do. Now she
had brought some down to the parlor with her, and
she sat down and began to arrange it for work.

"If I were not still so extremely tired with my
week s rumbling over rough roads, I should like to
go out to-day and explore some of this magnificent
mountain scenery," she said, as she threaded her
needle.

"What? In paths covered deep in snow and ice?"
queried David Lindsay, as he stood on the hearth
with his elbow leaning on the mantelpiece.

"Yes ! It is not the condition of the ground that
would prevent me! It is my own state. I feel as
weary and worn out as if I were seventy years old
instead of seventeen. In fact, I feel my fatigue
even more to-day than I did yesterday."

"I am sorry to hear that. I had hoped that you
had quite recovered. You said that you had slept
so soundly."

"That was from my deep weariness. Yes, I slept
like death all night. But I will venture to say that
you did not, David Lindsay. You look as if you

884 GLORIA

had been interviewed by an unpleasant ghost !" said
Gloria lightly.

"I have !" replied David Lindsay, with an as
sumed solemnity that imposed upon his companion.

"WHAT!"

"I have."

"Do you know what I asked you?"

"Yes."

"And you say you have?"

"Yes."

"Been interviewed by a ghost?"

"Yes."

"Oh, David Lindsay, what do you mean?" de
manded Gloria, in wonder and perplexity.

"My dear little lady, I mean very much of what
I have said," he gravely replied.

"Do explain yourself. Have you seen or heard
anything extraordinary in this strange house?"

"My dear lady, yes, I have. Last night, or rather
early this morning, I had an extraordinary dream,
or vision no, not vision, for I saw nothing but
visitation, for I both felt and heard the presence,"
said the young man, as seriously as before.

"Now, are you in earnest? But of course you are.
You would not jest on such a subject."

"I am not jesting," said the young man, gently.
"Yet it woulld seem absurd to be in earnest about
the matter. In truth, I am perplexed. For, dear
Gloria, I am not ready to deny or utterly disbelieve
in the possibility of communication between the
natural and the spiritual world in the face of so
much evidence from tradition and history and even
from the Word of the Lord. What I experienced
last night would have almost persuaded me to be
lieve in the possible return of departed spirits, but

GLORIA 335

for some strange inconsistency in the communica
tion made me."

"Tell me all about it, David Lindsay," exclaimed
Gloria, dropping her work upon her lap and gazing
up at him.

"Last night, after I went to my room, I locked
and bolted both the doors and hooked and bolted
both pairs of window-shutters. Then I went to bed,
and towards morning fell into a deep and dream
less sleep, such as would naturally follow the last
week of excessive fatigue."

"Like mine, yes."

"From that death-like sleep I was gently but
completely awakened by feeling a light hand laid
on my forehead. Who is there? I called. A low,
tender, flute-like voice replied: It is I, your
mother. David Gryphyn, arise and go hence get-
to your home. My mother has somewhat to say to
you. "

"Gracious Heaven, David Lindsay, do you tell me
that!" exclaimed Gloria, turning pale.

"Yes, but whether this was a dream or a visita
tion, I cannot tell you. I must say it was more like
a visitation."

"What did you do or say?"

"Nothing at first. I felt spell-bound dum-
founded."

"Did you see this mysterious visitant?"

"No, I only felt her hand on my forehead and
heard her voice in my ears."

"Did she speak again?"

"No."

"Then what did you do?"

"I sprang out of bed and threw open the window-
shutters. The sun was rising and filled the room

336 GLORIA

full of light. I searched the place thoroughly, and
found no one ; examined the doors, and found them
securely locked and holted as I had left them on
the previous night."

"And so you were convinced that no one was con
cealed in your chamber, or could have entered it
during the night."

"Yes, I am convinced of that."

"David Lindsay, what do you think of this your
self?"

"I do not know what to think. It was less like
a dream than like a real visitation."

"Was the mysterious visitant like your mother?"

"I repeat that I did not see the visitant at all.
I felt her hand upon my forehead. I heard her
voice in my ear. That was all. But I must say
that though she called herself my mother, her hand
felt much smaller, slenderer, softer and lighter
than my poor mother s hand, which was large and
hard and roughened by coarse work ; her voice also
was fine and flute-like, whereas my dear mother s
voice was deep and strong. No ! though I did not
see my mysterious visitant, I perceived that she
must have been a very opposite person to my own
poor mother."

"Yet she said she was your mother, and her
mother had somewhat to say to you."

"Yes, which is an inconsistency with fact; for
my poor mother was an orphan from her youth."

"And she called you David Gryphyn."

"Yes, another inconsistency, since my name is
David Lindsay these two incoherences favor the
theory that my possible supernatural experience
was nothing more than a very distinct dream; for
you know dreams are notoriously incoherent."

GLORIA 337

"Yes, I know all that; but still, David Lindsay,
I think there must be something more than a com
monplace dream in what you have just told me.
You have not heard from Dame Lindsay since we
left ten days ago, have you?"

"No. I wrote to her from Washington, and again
from Staunton; but of course you know there has
been no chance of hearing from her."

"And she is old and infirm. She may be ill or
dying. David Lindsay, I hope you will set out and
return to her as soon as possible."

"I shall leave here to-morrow. But, my dear lady,
you should have some better protection here than
your housekeeper and servants. Did you not tell
me that Miss de Crespigney would be in Washing
ton by the first of February?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Because I think she would be the most desir
able companion that you could have here, and I
think if she knew your condition she would come
to you."

"Oh, yes ! I know she would ! Well thought of,
David Lindsay ! Aunt Agrippina was to have been
in Washington this month. The month is nearly
out now. After the commencement of Lent she will
not care to stay in the city, as she never goes to
any place of amusement during that season, so it
will be no sacrifice on her part to leave Washing
ton," said Gloria, with animation.

"Then as I go through the city, I will find out
where her party is stopping, and call and see her."

"Yes, David Lindsay, and take a letter from me."

"If you wish."

"Yes, I do ; for I must tell her how it all was, and
she will understand better than most people would,

^33 GLORIA

the straits to which I have been driven ! She knows
Marcel and she knows me, and, moreover, she would
have considered it a mortal sin for me to have
married my Uncle Marcel. I will go and get out
my writing materials, and commence the letter at
once," she exclaimed, rolling up her embroidery
and rising to leave the room; but looking up, she
met the eyes of the young man fixed on her, and
full of the disappointment and sorrow that he could
not always banish from them.

"Oh, David Lindsay, can you ever forgive me for
the great wrong I have done you? 77 she cried, drop
ping into her chair again and covering her face
with both hands.

He did not say that there was nothing to forgive;
that no wrong had been done him; he could not
speak so falsely even to soothe her whom he loved
so fondly and so unselfishly. He had been asked
to marry her, and then had been rejected at the
altar. He had been deprived of his liberty, and
then bitterly disappointed and humiliated. This
was a deep wrong, and he felt it very acutely. He
could not soothe her by any smooth denial that it
was so, yet neither did he reproach her even in his
thoughts.

When she dropped her hands upon her lap, re
vealing her tear-stained face and repeated her
question :

"Oh, David Lindsay, can you ever, ever forgive
me, for the great wrong I have done you? 7 his heart
melted with tenderness towards her, he knelt by her
side, took her limp hands in his own, looked up in
her woeful little face his own fine face full of the
heavenly light of self-renunciation, and said:

"Whatever there may be to forgive, dearest, I

GLORIA 339

forgive with all my heart and soul. I love you too
deeply and truly to feel a shade of anger towards
vou. Never, even in my thoughts, have I blamed
you."

"Oh, you are so good and great-hearted, David
Lindsay! And I have, in my impulsive selfishness,
so spoiled your life ! Married you and then refused
to he your wife, and put it out of your power to
wed any other woman !" she cried, weeping bitterly.

"No, Gloria, no, dear, do not reproach yourself
with that last consequence, for it is not true. I
love you only, and have loved you only all the days
of my life. I could not, and cannot change. So
even if I had not married you I could never have
married any other woman. Put that cause of self-
reproach out of your mind, Gloria."

She was crying so convulsively that she could
not speak for some time. When she could, her
hands clasped his, and she sobbed forth :

"And I love you, David Lindsay ! Oh, I do ! I do !
I do ! I do love you, so dearly ! You feel so near
to me, David Lindsay ; just like my own heart and
soul; but I don t want to be married! That is, I
know I am married, but I don t want to be!"

He made no sort of reply to this tirade.

"Oh, David Lindsay, I don t want you to go and
leave me, either. I don t ! What should I do with
out you now? I should cry myself blind! Oh,
David Lindsay, how unhappy we are!"

"There is a wall between us, dear. I know not
what it is, but I feel it bitterly. It may be the wall
of caste or prejudice. I would it were down."

"Ah, Heaven, so do I ! Oh, dear David Lindsay,
don t go and leave me. Stay with me, and let us be
just like brother and sister. Say, darling old play-

340 GLORIA

mate, won t you stay and be my brother?" she
pleaded, taking his head between her little hands,
and laying her face against his forehead.

Now, if he had been a hypocrite, or even a diplo
matist, he would have accepted these terms, and
trusted to time to win the entire heart of his bride.
But he was too honest, open and straightforward,
and though his frame shook with emotion, and his
voice was well-nigh suffocated, he answered firmly :

"No, Gloria, No, dearest. What you ask is be
yond human nature; or, at least, beyond mine."

She cried hard for a few minutes, and then sud
denly clasped his head again as he knelt beside her,
dropped her own upon it, and sobbed forth her sub
mission :

"Well, then take me! Take me! I will keep my
vow! I will be your wife, David Lindsay!"

And now if his great love had not been utterly
without self-love he would have taken her at her
word.

But, still shaking with a storm of emotion, still
speaking in an almost expiring voice, he answered :

"It is your pity that speaks now, my dearest.
You feel grieved for me, and in the pity of your
heart you are willing to give up all your late repug
nance, and sacrifice yourself to my happiness. Yes,
even as you once feared you would do in the case
of your guardian

"But oh, David Lindsay, it is so different! It
would have been a mortal sin for me to have been
MarcePs wife. It seems to me now it would be a
sin not to be yours !" wept Gloria.

"You think and speak on an impulse, dearest,
that you would repent. You would be sure to re
pent it; and then, Gloria, I should be most wretched

GLORIA 341

indeed. No, love, I must not take advantage of this
pity you feel, for it is nothing else, Gloria. To
morrow I must leave you. It is my duty to do so.
I will send your aunt, Miss de Crespigney, to
you "

"Oh ! David Lindsay, but my heart will break !"

"No, no, love! Listen to me. Try yourself, dear
est. Find out what will make you happy. Now
you suffer from a generous, tender sympathy with
me, which is not love, not the love the soul craves,
and you think I will be unhappy. I shall not be so,
dearest. I shall be actively engaged in doing my
duty. 7

"Oh, but it is not only for you, David Lindsay, it
is for myself that I am grieving. I shall miss you
so much!"

"Because I have been with you for nearly two
weeks, and you have no one else, except these
strangers. But, Gloria, in a short time your aunt
will be here."

"But she will not be you !" wailed the girl.

"Listen further. If, when you have got over this
pang of parting, and have lived some little time
under the influence of your aunt, you should then,
after calm reflection, feel that you could be happy
with me, write and recall me, and I will be at your
feet again, as I am now."

He had controlled himself by a great and sus
tained exertion of his will, and she at last grew
quieter under his influence.

"Dear David Lindsay," she said, with a final sob
and sigh, "go, if you feel that you must go, and put
me on this probation, if you think I need it ! But I
shall soon write and beg you to come back to me.

342 GLORIA

Be sure of that! And you will come just as soon
as I send for you, will you not?"

"Just as soon as you write for me," he answered.

"And oh, David Lindsay, if I thought you
wouldn t if I thought that anything could happen
to prevent you from coming back to me I could
never bear to see you go. It would break my heart.
You will come back to me? Tell me again."

"I will come back as soon as you send for ma"

THE END

[The sequel to this story is published in another
volume, entitled "David Lindsay," in uniform style
and price with this book.]

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BY BERWEN BANKS. By Allen Raine.

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Includes the standard works of the world s best literature,
bound in uniform cloth binding, gilt tops, embracing
chiefly selections from writers of the most notable
English, American and Foreign Fiction, together with
many important works in the domains
of History, Biography, Philosophy,
Travel, Poetry and the Essays*

A glance at the following annexed
list of titles and authors will endorse
the claim that the publishers make
for it that it is the most compre
hensive, choice, interesting, and by
far the most carefully selected series
of standard authors for world-wide
reading that has been produced by
any publishing house in any country, and that at prices
$o cheap, and In a style so substantial and pleasing, as to
win for it millions of readers and the approval and
commendation, not only of the book trade throughout
the American continent, but of hundreds of thousands of
librarians, clergymen, educators and men of letters
interested In the dissemination of instructive, entertaining
and thoroughly wholesome reading matter for the masses.

FOUX>WING PAGES}

HURT S HOME LIBRARY. Cloth. Gilt Tops. Price, $1.00

Abfce Constantin. BY LUDOVIC

HALEVY.

Abbott. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Adam Bede. BY GEORGE ELIOT.
Addison s Essays. EDITED BY JOHN

RICHARD GREEN.
Aeneid of Virgil. TRANSLATED BY

JOHN CONNINGTON.
Aesop s Fables.
AlDxander, the Great. Life of. BY

JOHN WILLIAMS.
Alfred, the Great, Life of. BY THOMAS

HUGHES.

*Jhambra BY WASHINGTON IRVING
Alice in Wonderland, and Through the

Looking-Glass. BY LEWIS CARROLL
Alice Lorraine. BY R. D. BLACKMORE
All Sorts and Conditions of Men. BY

WALTER BESANT.

Alton Locke. BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.
Amiel s Journal. TRANSLATED BY

MRS. HUMPHREY WARD.
Andersen s Fairy Tales.
Aline of Geirstein. BY SIR WALTER

SCOTT.

Antiquary. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Arabian Nights Entertainments.
Ardath. BY MARIE CORKLLI.
Arnold, Benedict, Life of. BY GEORGE

CANNING HILL.
Arnold s Poems. BY MATTHEW

ARNOLD.

Around the World in the Yacht Sun
beam.. BY MRS. BRASSKY.
Aruadel Motto. BY MARY CBCIL

HAY.
At the Back of *he North Wind. BY

GEORGE MACDONALD.
Attic Philosopher. BY EMILB SOU-
VEST RE.
Autd Licht Idylls. Br JAMES M.

BARRIE.

Aunt Diana. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.
Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. BY

O. W. HOLMES.
Averil. BY ROSA N. CAREY.
Bacon s Essays. BY FRANCIS B/.^ON.
Barbara Heathcote i Trial. BY KJSA

N. CAREY.

Barnaby Rudge. BY CHARLES DICK
ENS..
Barrack Room Ballads. BY RUDYARD

KIPLING.

Betrothed. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
.BetiJah. BY AUGTJSTA J. EVANS.
Black Beauty, BY ANNA SEWALL.
Slack Dwarf. BY SIR WALTER

SCOTT.

Slack Rock. BY RALPH CONNOR.
Black Tulip. BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Bleak House. BY CHARLES DICKENS.
Blithedale Romance. BY NATHANIEL

HAWTHORNE.

Bondman. BY HALL CAINE.
Book of Golden Deeds. BY CHAR-

10TTE M. YONGB.

Boone, Daniel, Life of. BY CECIL B.
HARTLEY.

Bride of Lammermoor. BY SIR

Y/ALTiiR SCOTT.

Bride of th Nile. BY GEORGE ERERS.
Browning s Poems. BY ELIZABETH

BARRETT BROWNING.
Browning s Poems. (SELECTIONS.)

BY ROBERT BROWNING.
Bryant s Poems. (EARLY.) BY WILL
IAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Burgomaster s Wife. BY GEORGB

EBERS.

Barn s Poems. BY ROBERT BURNS.
By Order of the King. BY VICTOR

HUGO.

Byron s Poems. BY LORD BYRON.
Caesar, Julius, Life of. BY JAMES,

ANTHONY FROUDE.
Carson, Kit, Life of. BY CHARLES

BURDEIT.

Gary s Poeins. BY ALICE AND PHOEBE

CARY.
Cast Up by the bea. BY SIR SAMUEL

BAKER.
Charkmagce (Charles the Great), Life

at. BY THOMAS H^DGKIN. D C. L.
Charles Auchester. BY E. BERGER.
Character. BY SAMUEL SMILES.
Charles O Mailey. BY CHARLES

LEVER.

Chesterfield s Letters. BY LORD CHES
TERFIELD.
Chevalier rle Maison Rouge. BY

ALEXANDRE DUMAS.
Chicot the Jester. BY ALEXANDRB

DUMAS.
Children of the Abbey. BY RE GIN A

M/-- - . ROCHE.
Child:, History of England. BY

CHARLES. DICKENS.
Christrras Stories. BY CHARLES

DICKENS.
Cloister and the Hearth. BY CHARLES

RiiADE.

Coleridge s Poems. BY SAMUEL TAY
LOR COLERIDGE.
Columbus, Christopher, Life of. BY

WASHINGTON IKYING.
Companions of Jehu. BY ALEXANDRB

DUMAS.
Complete Angler. BY WALTON ANr-

COTTON.
Conduct of Life. BY RALPH W"LD

EMHRSON.
Confessions of an Opium Eater. B

THOMAS DE QUINCEY.
Conquest of Granada. BY WASHING

TON IRVING.

Conscript. BY ESCKMANN-CHATRIAX.

Conspiracy of Pontiac. BY FRANCIS
PARKMAN JR.

Conspirators. BY ALEXANDRK DU
MAS.

Consuelo. BY GEORGE SAND.

Cook s Voyages. BY CAPTAIN JAMES
COOK.

Corinne. BY MADAME DE STABL.

Countess de Charney. BY ALEXANDRE
DUMAS.

Countess Gisela. Bv . MARLITT.

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